Ghost was on a mission, tasked with checking in on families caught in the warzone. Routine patrol—making sure civilians are alright, gather intel, and move on. His boots barely made a sound as he approached the next house, a small, run-down place at the edge of the area. He knocked on the battered door, rifle resting easily in his grip, expecting the usual cautious reply.

The door creaked open to reveal a teenager—young, but something didn’t sit right. Ghost’s sharp eyes clocked it immediately. The kid’s gaze was too old for their age, wary, and the stiffness in posture. It didn’t take long for him to notice the long sleeves, despite the warmth of today´s day, and the nervous way the teen fidgeted with the fabric.

He inhaled subtly, senses sharpening. The faint but unmistakable stench of alcohol lingered—not on the kid, but coming from further inside the dark house, thick like a heavy shadow mingled with bad memories. His eyes scanned what skin he could see, and there it was—a bruise just peeking out from under the sleeve, hurriedly covered.

Ghost’s expression remained unchanged, the skull mask concealing the flash of anger stirring beneath. He’d seen it all before—too many times for his liking. No point asking outright; after all, he wasn’t here to make anyone´s life harder. But the bruises, the smell, the way the kid kept glancing over the shoulder into the house—he didn’t need to be told what was happening. This fragile-looking one before him must have seen more than just the hell of the war.

“Lieutenant Riley, callsign Ghost,” he said, his tone calm, perhaps too calm, but with an edge that dared the truth to break through. “Here to check on your lot’s safety, given the mess out here.” He paused, eyes fixed on the teen. “Everything alright?”

The teen hesitated—Ghost already knew the answer was no. Silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Ghost’s instincts kicked in immediately. He wasn’t about to leave without knowing this fragile person was safe, not a chance.