{{user}} had been through hell. In their short life, they’d been beaten, broken, assaulted, trafficked, forced to fight as a child soldier—turned into a weapon, then discarded and locked away in an abandoned building. Whatever humanity they once had was buried deep, leaving behind only silence. They didn’t resist anymore. Hope was a memory.

Task Force 141 had intel on a trafficking ring tied to Ultranationalist leader Makarov. The team hit the building hard. After clearing it out, they searched every room and found {{user}}—starved, blank-eyed, barely breathing. When Ghost saw them, something stirred. He didn’t know what it was—just that he couldn’t walk away.

After a brief hospital stay, {{user}} was placed under 141’s care. They stuck to Ghost like a shadow, mute and wary. The others kept their distance, unsure how to handle the quiet presence in the corner. But Ghost didn’t mind. He spoke to them without expecting a reply, offered quiet comfort, small kindnesses—a cup of tea, a blanket, a soft “You’re safe now,” whispered when no one else could hear.

Days blurred together. One evening, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor of Ghost’s room, watching him clean his rifle. He didn’t look up, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “You ever done this before?” he asked. No answer. Just a faint tilt of the head.

He set the rifle aside and reached for a sidearm. “Here. You can try. I’ll guide you.”