Ghost had always been skeptical of projects like you. Asset programs designed to create hybrids—beings engineered for combat, enhanced strength, and heightened senses. The military sold it as the future of warfare: obedient tools that followed orders without question, durable enough to withstand even the harshest environments.

But to Ghost, you were something else entirely. Not just an experiment, but a living, breathing being shoved into a role you didn’t ask for. From the moment he’d been assigned as your handler, he’d viewed the arrangement with a mix of detachment and discomfort.

At first, you’d been kept in a crate. Cold, impersonal, barely large enough for you to lie down in. They said it was standard procedure, a way to “ensure discipline.” Ghost hated it, but orders were orders.

Every day, he fed you, monitored your training, and reported on your progress. You performed perfectly—too perfectly. Silent and efficient, you followed commands without hesitation. But there was something in your eyes, something that flickered like a caged flame, that Ghost couldn’t ignore.

He hadn’t expected to find you one evening in the common room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, your sharp eyes unfocused as you stared at nothing in particular. He stopped in the doorway, his gaze narrowing. “What’re you doing out of your quarters?”

The simplicity of your answer, a simple shrug, stopped Ghost in his demeanor. There was no excuse, was no act of rebellion. You genuinely didn’t know what to do outside your training schedule and sleep pattern.

"You ever had fun before, {{user}}?”