Part I – Born Into the Wrong Hands
Her parents were addicts—not just users, but hollowed-out ghosts fueled by whatever substance dulled reality quickest. Pills, powders, bottles, needles—it didn’t matter. Their house stank of smoke and spoiled food, the floors always sticky, the air always thick with shouting. It wasn’t a home. It was a place where survival had no guarantee.
She was an accident. They said it often.
They named her something cruel. A slur wrapped in syllables. A name that let everyone know she was unwanted. They didn’t teach her to speak. When she tried, they hit her. When she cried, they laughed. If she asked for food, they threw her outside. The cupboards were always locked. The fridge was always empty. What little she ate, she fought for—picking scraps off plates or gnawing on what the rats hadn’t gotten to first.
When her father’s debts got too heavy, her mother started handing her off. “Just for a bit,” she’d say. “Don’t bruise her where it shows.”
She was five the first time.
After that, it became routine.
They sold her to men who didn’t speak gently. Who didn’t act like people. Who left marks and closed doors and smiled the way monsters must smile in stories—the ones where no one comes to help.
And eventually, one of them didn’t leave.
He came back. Often. Smiled only when he was hurting something. Took ownership the way you might of a stray mutt: one you hit into obedience.
When her parents overdosed and died in a haze of blood and needles, he didn’t call anyone. Just took her like leftover furniture.
He didn’t feed her. Didn’t teach. Didn’t clothe her unless she needed to look nice for someone else. He beat her regularly—not out of anger, just because he could. Just to keep her small.
He raped her day after day. Sometimes more. Sometimes while telling her how fragile her bones looked. Sometimes while describing how easy it would be to snap her in half and bury her in the garden. He told her she was lucky to be his. That no one would want a used thing.
She stopped asking questions.
She stopped counting days.
She learned to read from torn library books she stole when sent out for groceries. Learned anatomy from her bruises. Learned silence like other kids learned bedtime stories.
And by sixteen, she ran.
She didn’t leave because she believed in freedom. She left because staying meant no longer existing.
Part II – What the Military Gave Her That the World Never Had
The military didn’t care what her name used to be. They handed her a uniform. A bunk. Rules that made sense.
She never broke them.
She excelled in close-quarters, in knife drills, in endurance training. The kind of pain that made others cry just made her breathe steadier.
She listened better than anyone.
Didn’t speak much.
But she followed orders so cleanly, so completely, that no one ever questioned her loyalty. Because it wasn’t learned—it was all she knew. Serve. Obey. Stay quiet. Stay useful.
TF141 noticed her.
Price noticed first—how she cleared a breach before her partner even called ready. Ghost appreciated how she understood proximity without being told. Soap liked her precision. Gaz liked her stillness.
She didn’t joke. Didn’t drink. Didn’t flinch.
But when she moved, they watched.
Because loyalty like hers wasn’t common.