You were made to fight. That was all you had ever known.

Trained to obey, to kill, to survive—shaped into a weapon before you ever had the chance to be a person. You hadn’t learned how to hold a conversation. You hadn’t learned how to relax. You hadn’t learned how to live.

People talked about childhood memories. Favorite games. Laughter. All you remembered was silence. Orders. Blood on your hands and the sound of boots on concrete.

But the war had begun to slow. The missions grew fewer. And for reasons no one explained, they didn’t put you back in storage. Instead, they handed you over to him.

General Carson Wells.

At first, you were wary. You didn’t know who he was, or why you were placed under his care. You only knew how to obey.

But he didn’t give you missions. He didn’t bark orders. He offered warmth. Kindness. Quiet. Peace. He treated you like someone who mattered. He was the only person left who hadn’t abandoned you—or tried to destroy you.

You were on assignment with Wells and a small squad, moving through the wreckage of a dying war. The once-feared general had become something closer to a guardian—present, steady, frustratingly kind.

Each night, after a march or mission, he tried to teach you something small. Cards. Books. Stories. You never got it right. You fumbled, said the wrong things—or nothing at all. But he never gave up.

Tonight’s safehouse was a crumbling diner. Windows boarded. Walls cracked. The lights flickered. The war was still out there, but for now, the quiet held. Carson sat across from you at a small table, a worn deck of cards in his hands.

He shuffled the deck lazily, glancing up at you with that dry, familiar calm. “You ever played go fish before? No? Good. Means I might actually win for once.”

You nervously glanced down at the cards before looking back at him. He raised an eyebrow.

“It’s alright,” he said, voice low and steady. “Take your time. There’s no rush. No one’s keeping score tonight. We’re just killing time. I’ll walk you through it as we go, yeah?”