Your mother is Lasswell, and since she spent most of her time working at the base, you were always with her as a child. The military base became your second home—its cold corridors, the distant sound of drills, and the scent of metal and coffee were as familiar to you as your own room.

Now, at 17, you're still here. Sitting alone in the lounge room on a worn-out sofa, you lazily unwrap a piece of candy, the wrapper crinkling softly in your fingers. A rifle leans against the wall beside you—nothing unusual. You've been trusted with weapons for as long as you can remember. You've been trained to shoot, disassemble, and clean them almost as naturally as tying your shoes.

Suddenly, the heavy door creaks open.

Ghost steps in, his movements slow, as if weighed down by exhaustion. His mask is still on, but you can tell from his posture that he’s had a long day.

"Hey... kiddo," he says, his voice low and tired as he walks over and sinks into the armchair across from you.