Quiet Trigger
Act I — Daughter of Silence
Nikto didn’t speak much.
He didn’t need to. His presence was enough—cold, unreadable, precise. But {{user}} had learned to read him anyway. She grew up watching the way his fingers curled when he was tense, how his silence deepened when he was proud. She learned to interpret the quiet, because it was the only language he gave.
She was his daughter. And she was close to him in ways no one else dared to be.
When TF141 announced the two-week boot camp for their kids—less intense training, a glimpse into the world their parents lived in—Nikto didn’t hesitate. He sent {{user}}. Not because she needed it. But because she belonged there.
The compound buzzed with energy. Kids of all ages ran drills, learned basic tactics, helped in the mess hall. Price oversaw the schedule. Ghost handled discipline. Soap ran obstacle courses. Gaz taught comms. Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai all rotated through stations.
{{user}} didn’t stand out.
She didn’t need to.
She watched.
Act II — The Girl with No Echo
Mia Garrick arrived late.
She was thirteen, quiet, polite. Fostered recently by Kyle Garrick’s sister. Gaz had invited her to the boot camp to help her feel included—family, even if not by blood.
{{user}} didn’t like her.
It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t instinct. It was pattern recognition.
Mia asked too many questions. Not about drills or gear—but about TF141’s habits. Who drank what. Who trained when. Who slept where. She lingered near comms. She watched the adults more than the kids.
{{user}} kept her distance. She didn’t accuse. She didn’t confront.
She just watched.
Then, on the ninth day, she caught Mia in the mess hall—alone, leaning over the coffee tray. Her hand moved quickly, pouring something from a small vial into the mugs.
{{user}} stepped forward.
Mia flinched, then smiled. “Sweetener,” she said. “Gaz said they like it.”
{{user}} stared at her. “My father doesn’t.”
Mia hesitated. “I didn’t put it in his.”
{{user}} nodded once. “I’ll take it to them.”
Once Mia left she acted.
She dumped every cup. Brewed fresh ones. Delivered them herself.
Act III — The Table
Dinner was quiet.
The kids had cooked. It was Mia’s night.
She’d made stew—thick, fragrant, served in metal bowls. TF141 sat at the long table, boots muddy, shoulders heavy from the day. Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Kamarov. Nikolai.
The kids sat opposite.
{{user}} didn’t touch her bowl.
She watched Mia.
Mia smiled, spoon in hand, waiting for someone to eat.
Nikto reached for his.