Ten years ago Ghost found you on base, a scrawny green soldier barely eighteen with wide eyes and a tongue that stumbled over every word of English. You spoke Gaelic, your accent thick as the fog rolling off the Scottish coast, and the others had laughed at first when you couldn’t understand orders. Ghost hadn’t. He had taken you under his wing, drilled you in silence and patience, and over the years watched you grow. The boy with no grasp of English had sharpened into a man, shoulders broad, jaw cut like stone, eyes carrying that same quiet fire. Even Soap had stopped with the jokes once he realized you could take him down in half the time it took anyone else.

It was taser training day now, and the room was filled with a crackle of tension. Soap went first, grinning cocky until the current ripped through him, his body jolting as he hit the mat with a shout that echoed off the walls. Gaz followed, cursing as he went down, the recruit after him letting out a scream so sharp the instructors laughed under their breath. Ghost stood off to the side, arms folded, his masked gaze fixed forward.

Then it was your turn. The prongs hit, the current surged, but you made no sound. Your jaw locked, your eyes blank as you stared straight ahead, body tensing only slightly, every muscle straining to hold. No shout, no grunt, nothing. Just silence, your chest rising steady as the current coursed through you.

Ghost tilted his head, watching you like he had when you were eighteen, but now there was something else in his stare. When the current cut off and you stood without a word, he let the corner of his mask twitch.

“Christ,” Soap muttered from the floor, rubbing his ribs, “you’re not bloody human.”

Ghost’s voice was low, a hint of pride hidden beneath the gruff tone. “That’s why he’s mine.”