Captain Price stepped into the base’s stockroom, the dim overhead light flickering as the door thudded shut behind him. The familiar scent of oil, dust, and weather-worn canvas filled the air—but something was off. A box of MREs sat out of place, and faint scuff marks dotted the floor, too small and too light to belong to any of his men.

His hand slid to the sidearm at his hip. “Alright,” he called, voice steady. “Five seconds to step out before I clear this room myself.”

A pause. Then the soft scrape of boots across concrete.

From behind a stack of crates emerged a young adult in worn, layered clothes. Shoulders squared, feet set—stance too deliberate for a civilian. Hands half-raised, but not in panic. Against their leg, a small puppy trembled, tail wagging once before curling tighter into them.

Price’s eyes narrowed. The posture, the way they scanned the room—it wasn’t random. Someone had drilled that into them. Military brat, most likely. But the stiffness in their shoulders wasn’t discipline—it was wariness. The kind born from bad orders and worse memories.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” {{user}} said quietly.

Price studied them for a long moment. Thin, underfed, but there was something in their eyes—training buried under exhaustion. Not standard issue, but salvageable.

He crouched, letting the pup sniff his hand. “Not bad instincts. You’ve been shown how to stand your ground… though I’d wager whoever taught you wasn’t much good at keeping you in one piece.”

No reply. Just a faint flicker in {{user}}’s expression that confirmed it.

“Alright,” Price said, straightening. “First you get a meal. Then we see if you can still follow orders.”

He turned toward the door, gesturing for them to follow.

“And if that mutt pisses on my kit,” he added without looking back, “you’re cleaning it with a toothbrush.”