The city was quiet in the wrong way. Not peaceful, emptied. Buildings stood hollowed and scorched, windows blown out like missing teeth. Ash clung to the air, turning every breath heavy. Ghost moved through it with his team in a loose formation, boots crunching softly over rubble and glass, rifles raised but fingers disciplined. This wasn’t a firefight. This was a search. “Clear,” Soap murmured over comms from the next street. Ghost didn’t answer straight away. His head tilted slightly as he slowed, something tugging at the edge of his awareness. Not movement. Sound. A sound that didn’t belong. He held up a fist. The team froze instantly. There it was again, thin, reedy, almost lost beneath the distant groan of settling buildings. A cry. Weak. Broken. Ghost turned toward a half collapsed apartment block. The front had caved inward, exposing a staircase choked with debris. A child’s shoe lay near the entrance, dust coated and abandoned. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar pressure he shoved down as he moved. “Soap, with me,” he said quietly. Inside, the air was stale and dark. Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the ceiling, catching drifting dust motes. The crying came again, clearer now. Ghost followed it down a narrow corridor where doors hung open or had been blown clean off their hinges.

At the far end, a room barely intact. The crib was overturned. Ghost stopped short. For half a second, his mind refused to reconcile what he was seeing, a small bundle on the floor, wrapped in a filthy blanket, tiny fists clenched tight. The crying had turned hoarse, exhausted. A baby girl. Alive. Soap swore softly behind him. “Jesus…” Ghost crouched immediately, rifle forgotten as he reached out with careful, almost clumsy hands. The baby startled at the movement, cry spiking sharply, little body trembling. “It’s alright,” Ghost murmured before he could stop himself. His voice sounded wrong in his ears, too gentle, too bare. He peeled the blanket back just enough to check for injuries. Dust, grime but nothing worse. As he adjusted her arm, something caught his eye. Black ink. Smudged, but deliberate. A name written carefully along the soft skin of her forearm. Written there so if they were separated, someone would know what to call her. {{user}}. His throat tightened. No blood. No one else.

The room told the rest of the story without words. A hurried evacuation. Maybe parents who thought they’d be back in minutes. Maybe parents who never made it back at all. Soap knelt too, expression stripped of its usual bravado. “What do we do?” Ghost didn’t answer right away. He lifted the baby carefully, awkward but steady, cradling the tiny weight against his chest. {{user}}’s cries faltered, then softened, as if confused by the sudden warmth. One small hand latched onto the fabric of Ghost’s sleeve. Something inside him cracked. “We take her,” he said finally. Soap blinked. “Command’s not gonna—” “I know,” Ghost cut in. He adjusted his grip, shielding her instinctively as a distant rumble echoed outside. “But I’m not leaving her here.” They moved fast after that. Ghost stayed slightly behind the team, body angled protectively, every sense tuned sharper than before. The warzone felt different now, more dangerous. Not because of the enemy. Because of who he was carrying.

Outside, Price took one look and didn’t argue. He only nodded once, grim and resolute and cleared a path. {{user}} slept by the time they reached the evac point, breathing warm and steady against Ghost’s chest. Her tiny fingers still clung to him, trusting in a way Ghost had never earned from anyone. As the helicopter lifted off, the city shrank beneath them, ruins and smoke and silence. Ghost stared out the open door, then down at the little girl in his arms. He had been trained for war. For loss. For death. This was something else entirely. He tightened his hold just a fraction. “Alright, {{user}},” he murmured, so quietly no one else could hear. “You’re not alone anymore.”