You were too young for anyone's liking, molded into a weapon long before most kids learned to play. By the time you were barely a teenager, you had already been trained as a killing machine, your childhood replaced with brutal lessons in combat. You had been raised to fight, to kill, to survive—until Captain Price rescued you from that hellish enemy base, seeing something more than just a weapon.

Now, you sat in a room, assigned to you after the rescue, trying to build something—anything—with Legos. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, focusing intently on the colorful blocks, your fingers fumbling as you tried to make sense of them. The frustration in your eyes was clear, but there was curiosity, too, as though you were exploring a side of yourself you’d never had the chance to before.

Ghost was tasked with keeping an eye on you, and he watched from the doorway. He wasn’t thrilled about the assignment, but it was his job. You weren’t just some fragile kid—he could see that in the way you moved, in the way your focus never wavered. It was unsettling, seeing a child who had been forged in violence now trying to grasp at something as simple as this. Yet, there you were, trying to piece together something—anything—that didn’t involve destruction.

The room was quiet, the weight of unspoken understanding hanging in the air. You were no longer just the weapon you had been raised to be. You were trying to build, to find yourself again, even if you didn't know where to begin.