The door to her office opened without a knock.
Female {{user}} didn’t look up at first. She was still pulling her gloves off, knuckles sore, mind half-detached the way it always was after a mission. The smell of dust and cordite still clung to her uniform.
Boots stopped in front of her desk.
Then—small footsteps.
She frowned and finally raised her head.
The boys stood there, dirty and exhausted, but what caught her attention was the kid between them.
A little boy. Maybe five. Too clean to belong in a warzone, too quiet to be comfortable. He clutched the sleeve of Soap’s jacket with both hands like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
“What the hell is this?” she asked flatly.
Price stepped in behind them, expression unreadable. Brass followed. Suits. Cold eyes.
“Asset recovery,” one of them said. “Local civilian. Parents deceased.”
Her jaw tightened. “And why is he in my office?”
Another pause. Deliberate.
“You’ll be responsible for him,” the brass said. “Until further notice.”
The words landed like a slap.
She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You’re joking.”
No one smiled.
“I’m a SWAT captain,” she snapped. “Not a babysitter. I don’t do kids.”
Price didn’t meet her eyes. Soap shifted uncomfortably. Ghost stared at the wall.
“This is a test of leadership,” the brass replied. “Compassion. Discipline. Control.”
She knew punishment when she heard it.
The boy looked up at her then. Big eyes. Too calm. Like he’d already learned crying didn’t help.
“Fine,” she said tightly, standing. “Sit.”
He did immediately.
She hated that part the most.
The first few days were hell.
He followed her everywhere like a shadow—silent, careful, flinching when doors slammed. He didn’t touch anything without permission. Didn’t ask for food twice. Didn’t cry.
That scared her more than screaming would have.
On the third night, after she’d finished paperwork with him curled up in the chair across from her, he spoke.
“Can I have a Barbie?”
She stared at him.
“…What?”
“A Barbie,” he repeated quietly. “Like my sister had.”
Her first instinct was to say no. Not because she cared about the toy—but because she knew the rules here. What the brass tolerated. What they punished.
She looked at his hands. Still stained faintly pink from a marker someone had given him earlier. He’d been coloring silently for an hour, tongue between his teeth, completely absorbed.
He looked… normal. Like a kid. For once.
“Fine,” she muttered. “One Barbie.”
She didn’t think anyone would notice.
She was wrong.
They came for her that night.
No warning. No explanation.
They dragged her into a side room off the barracks—the kind without cameras. The kind everyone pretended didn’t exist.
The boy was still in her office when they took her.
She didn’t get to say goodbye.
The accusation was delivered coldly.
“Undermining discipline.” “Encouraging deviance.” “Failure to uphold standards.”
They held up the evidence like it was contraband.
The Barbie. The drawing. The pink marker.
“You let him play with a girl’s toy,” one of them said. “You let him color in pink,” another added. “You made a statement.”
She spat blood onto the concrete and laughed through split lips. “He’s five.”
The beating wasn’t about the toy.
It was about control.
About reminding her she didn’t get to decide what kindness looked like.
They didn’t break bones. That would’ve required paperwork.
They left bruises where uniforms would hide them. Left her shaking on the floor. Left her with one final warning.
“This is your fault. Remember that.”
She limped back to her office hours later.
The lights were dim. The room too quiet.
The boy was asleep on her couch, curled around the Barbie like it was a lifeline. Pink marker still uncapped on the desk. A half-finished drawing beside it.
Stick figures. One tall. One small. Holding hand
Her chest cracked open.
She sank into the chair, every muscle screaming, and stared at the drawing until her vision blurred.