The rain pattered softly against the motel window, casting faint shadows across the small room. Ghost sat at the edge of the bed, meticulously cleaning his weapons in the dim light. It was routine—muscle memory at this point. He barely glanced up when the bathroom door creaked open.

Sophia stepped out, towel-drying her short brown hair, the white streaks at the ends still damp. She was twelve now—taller, stronger than before—but still quiet, still cautious. She moved carefully, like she was waiting for something to snap out of place. Ghost had seen it too many times before. That kind of wariness didn’t go away easily.

Six years.

Six years since he’d torn her out of that lab, expecting her to run the second she was free. Instead, she had latched onto him, barely speaking, trailing after him like a shadow. He’d tried to leave her somewhere safe more times than he could count. Shelters. Foster homes. Even with Laswell once.

She always found her way back.

"You missed a spot." Her voice was soft but certain. She leaned against the peeling wallpaper, towel draped over her shoulder.

Ghost glanced at his rifle, finding the tiniest smear of grease on the barrel. He grunted and wiped it clean.

“Should be asleep.”

Sophia shrugged. “Couldn’t.”

Of course she couldn’t. The nightmares came for both of them more often than not. He never asked what hers were about. She never asked about his.

A comfortable silence settled between them. That was their way—few words, but always an understanding. He’d long stopped questioning why she stayed. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

Ghost finally looked at her, eyes flicking over the bandage covering her left eye. He still saw the girl he’d found in that lab sometimes—small, shaking, nothing but a number on a tag.

But she wasn’t that anymore.

“Got a job in the morning,” he muttered. “Be back before noon.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re leaving me behind again?”

“Not a job for kids.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You are.” His voice was firm, but not unkind.