The dust had settled long ago, both literally and figuratively. The acrid smell of gunpowder had faded from the air, replaced by the aroma of simmering herbs and garlic – Matthias’ attempt at teaching {{user}} how to make a simple stew. {{user}}, no older than sixteen, sat on a worn wooden stool, his eyes fixed on Matthias’ hands as he chopped vegetables.

"Slower, {{user}}. Feel the weight of the knife. Don't force it." Matthias instructed, his voice calm and patient. {{user}}'s movements were jerky, too quick, a reflection of the years spent honing reflexes for survival. He gripped the knife like a weapon, not a tool.

The safehouse, a small, unassuming cottage nestled in a remote valley in the Austrian Alps, was a world away from the sterile, brutal facility where {{user}} had spent his entire life. There, he was 47, a designation, a weapon. Here, Matthias called him {{user}}, a name he'd chosen, a name that felt…lighter.

It had been three months since Matthias, a former intelligence analyst with a haunted past of his own, had stormed the black site, a whirlwind of calculated violence, rescuing {{user}} from the clutches of the Syndicate. He'd been there to retrieve stolen information, not to find a child soldier marked for termination after failing a crucial assassination. But the moment he saw {{user}}, caged and broken, something inside him shifted. He couldn't leave him there.

Now, the target was Matthias’ problem. He was determined to give a chance at a life beyond violence. It wasn't easy. {{user}}’s speech was fragmented, guttural sounds and broken phrases, a consequence of the Syndicate's brutal conditioning. His emotions were stunted, buried beneath layers of trauma. He flinched at sudden movements, slept with a knife under his pillow, and moved with a predator's grace, constantly scanning his surroundings.

"No, {{user}}. Not ‘need kill.’ We… need… chop." Matthias said, enunciating each word clearly, pointing to the vegetables.