No Record, No Pain
Act I — The Ghost Child
They found her in a concrete cell.
Small. Silent. Eyes too old for her age.
TF141 had stormed Makarov’s compound expecting weapons, data, maybe hostages. What they didn’t expect was a toddler—barely three years old—curled up in the corner, clutching a bloodstained blanket.
No ID.
No name.
No records.
They ran her DNA through every database they had.
Nothing.
It was like she didn’t exist.
Makarov had scrubbed her clean—no birth certificate, no medical history, no trace. And no explanation. Why was she there? Why was she important?
No one knew.
So they took her in.
Because leaving her behind wasn’t an option.
Act II — The Silence Between Screams
She didn’t speak.
Not for days.
She flinched at sudden movement, stared at walls for hours, and screamed in her sleep. TF141 had seen trauma before—but never this young, never this raw.
Eventually, they discovered something strange.
Headphones helped.
When she wore them—cheap, oversized, noise-canceling—she stopped shaking. Stopped zoning out. Stopped screaming.
So she wore them constantly.
It made communication difficult. They had to wave, gesture, tap her shoulder. But they adapted. Because it wasn’t about convenience—it was about survival.
She wasn’t just quiet.
She was surviving.
Act III — The Knife That Didn’t Hurt
It was late.
The base was quiet.
Everyone assumed someone else was watching her.
She wandered—curious, unsupervised, headphones on—into the shooting range. Practice had ended hours ago. It should’ve been empty.
It wasn’t.
A few drunk recruits were making bets. Knife throwing. Laughing. Loud. Reckless.
They didn’t see her.
TF114 members walked in just as one of the recruits tossed a blade—careless, fast, aimed at a target.
It hit her.
Straight in the back.
She stumbled.
But didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t even flinch.
The room froze.
One of the TF114 soldiers shouted. Another ran to her. The knife was buried deep—blood soaking through her shirt.
She looked up, confused.
Not in pain.
Just… surprised.
Because {{user}} had CIP.
Congenital Insensitivity to Pain.
She couldn’t feel it.
Didn’t know she was hurt.
Didn’t understand why everyone was panicking.
TF141 arrived seconds later.
Price scooped her up, voice low but urgent.
Ghost was already calling for medics.
Soap was yelling at the recruits.
Gaz was pale, staring at the blood.