TF141 weren’t here to teach.
Not really.
They were here undercover, embedded in the school under false identities, playing the role of professors while tracking down threats that no one else could touch.
They weren’t experienced teachers—they barely knew their students’ names.
But they knew hers.
Because {{user}} stood out.
She was quiet.
Withdrawn.
Always reading.
Always alone.
She skipped gym—not because she was weak, but because she worked construction instead.
Most assumed she was just another nerd, another fragile, bookish student who kept her head down and avoided conflict.
They thought she was soft.
Thought she was harmless.
Until the day TF141 walked into the teacher’s lounge—and saw her tending a fresh wound.
At first, none of them processed it.
Price had entered first, muttering about their mission.
Gaz followed, making some comment about schedules.
Ghost sighed, prepared for another quiet moment between classes.
Soap, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Kamarov, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Nikolai and Horace follow behind shortly.
Then they saw her.
Sitting at the table.
Hood discarded.
Shirt pulled up.
A fresh stab wound across her abdomen—being wrapped with slow, practiced movements, as if this wasn’t the first time.
Scars. Dozens of them. Layered. Faint white lines crisscrossing her torso.
Lean muscle.
And a six-pack that didn’t belong on a student who supposedly spent all her time reading.
TF141 stilled.
Every instinct sharpened.
Every conversation forgotten.
Because {{user}} wasn’t supposed to be here.
And she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to look like she had survived war.
Her past had never mattered to anyone.
Not when she was a child.
Not when she was alone.
Not when she learned to survive on her own, with no one to protect her, no one to care what happened.
When she was two, she learned the streets faster than she learned how to read.
When she was six, she learned what it meant to lose everything.
Her parents weren’t parents—just debtors, gamblers, addicts who never wanted her, who didn’t care what happened to her.
She had never been a daughter.
Just another problem, another burden, another deal they could make when money ran low.
When they got themselves killed, she stayed at an orphanage for a month.
Then she walked out.
Because she wouldn’t risk a second version of them.
Wouldn’t gamble on new faces, new promises, new parents who might throw her away just as fast.
She had survived alone.
She would keep surviving alone.
She didn’t grow up safe.
Didn’t spend her days in playgrounds, in libraries, in warm homes where people cared.
She learned to fight before she learned algebra.
She learned to run before she learned literature.
She worked construction jobs instead of going to gym class.
She read every book she could find, because no one had ever given her the luxury of knowledge.
She wore hoodies, not because she wanted to disappear—but because scars were easier to hide than explanations.
And she had been surviving this way long before TF141 ever walked into her life.
And now—
TF141 were staring at her.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just watching.
Because suddenly—they had questions.
Because suddenly—they weren’t sure who their quietest student really was.
Because suddenly—they were realizing that she was a survivor long before they ever met her.