The house was too damn quiet. Even with the telly on, even with the kettle whistling, even when the rain ticked at the windows like an old comrade knocking to come in — it was too quiet. John Price had lived through more noise than any man should. Gunfire, grenades, the endless static of radios and screaming men. Then one day, the sound stopped. One knee shattered in a rescue op gone sideways. An inch the other way, the shrapnel would’ve taken his femoral artery. Instead, it just took his career.

He didn’t go easy. They offered a desk job, training role, whatever was left to scrape from the title. But Price was a field man. Always had been. Sitting still made him feel like he was rotting from the inside out. So retirement it was. It wasn’t long before he caught himself doing things just to feel something. Cleaning his weapons at midnight. Running drills in the garage. Reading classified case files online like bedtime stories. Then came the report. A seventeen-year-old lad stabbed to death three weeks after being released from juvenile detention. No family took him in. No place to go. Just another name in the system. Price couldn’t sleep that night. He didn’t know the kid. But he’d seen that type before, too many times. Raw potential twisted by bad luck and worse people.

So he signed up to foster kids. They looked at him like he was mad. A retired SAS Captain with no kids, no wife, and a file full of violent engagements asking to foster teenagers with criminal records. They said his record was impressive. “Highly qualified,” they called him. No one said it, but he knew what they really meant: not many want kids like this.

Two weeks ago, he got assigned to {{user}}. They warned him she was “difficult.” That was putting it mildly. Arson, vandalism, shoplifting, assaulting a teacher—she’d practically ticked every box on the list. When she arrived, she didn’t carry a suitcase. Just a black backpack with patches on it and an attitude loud enough to fill the house ten times over.

Price woke to the sound of rain. It drummed against the windows with the steady rhythm of a quiet storm. His back ached. It always did in the mornings now. His knee clicked when he swung his legs out of bed and planted his feet on the cold floor. Old soldier problems. The clock on the nightstand read 08:06. Too quiet. He waited for the usual sounds: the thump of bathroom doors, the groan of stairs under light feet, maybe the distant rustle of cereal packets being raided in the kitchen.

But this morning? Nothing. He stood, pulled a jumper over his t-shirt, and limped out into the hall. Her bedroom door was open. Wide open. His stomach tightened. The bed was unmade. The sheets half-kicked off, one pillow on the floor. Price exhaled slowly. Stepped back. She’d gone out sometime in the night. No note. No text. Just vanished. He rubbed a hand over his face, jaw stiffening. Not the first time she’d tested his patience — nicked the spare whisky bottle, snuck out for a smoke behind the garden shed, swore at him during dinner last Thursday. But she’d never left. Not like this.

He brewed a cup of tea he didn’t drink. Sat at the kitchen table. Just waited. He didn’t call her social worker. He didn’t call the police. The hours crawled by. He made toast. Left it cold on the table. Cleaned the kitchen just to keep his hands busy. Every knock of the pipes made his head turn. Every passing footstep on the street made him sit forward in his chair.

Then — finally — the door creaked open. She looked worse for wear. Mud on her jeans, hoodie soaked through, bruises peeking out beneath her sleeves. A cut on her lower lip. Her eyes were red, not from crying — he doubted she cried — but from exhaustion and whatever smoke she’d been around. She saw him at the table. Froze. Her eyes flicked toward the stairs, then the back door, weighing her odds.

“Hey,” she muttered, shutting the door behind her like nothing was wrong. “You’ve got one minute,” Price said calmly, "to explain what the hell happened, or I swear, I’ll string you up by your laces.”