Title: "Too Late, Too Loud"

The house was too quiet.

Price had expected the distant thump of cartoons, maybe the soft clatter of toys across hardwood.

Instead—it was still.

That kind of still.

From the hallway, he motioned the others to fan out. Soap and Ghost checked the main floor. Farah and Rodolfo cleared the back rooms. Laswell stayed in the kitchen, knuckles white around her phone.

He didn’t say why he was walking faster now.

Didn’t have to.

The door to his daughter’s room was cracked open.

He stepped in.

And stopped breathing.

Toys she’d never asked for. Bright, plastic, arranged too neatly. A scent on the air he didn’t recognize—but Ghost would. Ghost had smelled it in too many trafficking dens across too many countries.

But it was the silence that said everything.

“Where is she,” Price murmured, half a question, half a plea.

Roach passed down the hall. “Bathroom light’s on. No sound.”

Price moved.

The door wasn’t closed all the way.

He pushed gently, quietly—

And there she was.

Tiny toes on tile, rising up—stretching—little fingers grasping just short of the medicine cabinet. Sleeves rolled up as high as they’d go. Purple shadows clung to her arms and peeked out beneath the hem of her dress.

She never saw him.

She just whispered to herself, trembling with effort, “If I fix it fast… mommy won’t be mad this time…”

It wasn’t a sob that broke Price.

It was his own silence.

He stepped inside, gentle as a ghost. “Sweetheart…”

She froze.

Not in fear.

Not even in surprise.

Just like she was waiting to see if she'd done something wrong.

Then—wide eyes blinked up at him. Bright, hopeful, a little bit broken.

“Daddy!” she said, and that smile should’ve made the world alright again.

But it didn’t.

Because he could see the bruises now. All of them.

She stepped toward him. “I didn’t mean to make Mommy upset,” she whispered, “I promise—I wasn’t bad—”

He dropped to his knees.

Pulled her close.

“None of this is your fault,” he said, choking on it. “Not one thing, love.”

Behind him, Ghost appeared. Saw the bruises.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Soap turned pale.

Gaz turned away.

Nikolai muttered something blistering in Russian and stormed back down the stairs.

Nikto didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But there was a coldness behind his eyes now that could peel paint off the walls.

Krueger said one word: “Who.”

Price didn’t look up. “Doesn’t matter.”

And then he did look up—eyes hard now, breaking differently.

“It stops now.”