The afternoon sun hung low over the trailer park, casting long shadows across the cracked gravel road. You had just taken your sister out to get her favorite treat—soft-serve ice cream. For a brief moment, you both laughed as she twirled, her pigtails bouncing, sticky fingers gripping the cone that was almost bigger than her tiny hands. You watched her smile, a rare flicker of joy in your otherwise bleak days.

Just as you turned to head back, you heard the unmistakable splat. Her ice cream had slipped right out of her grip, splattering on the ground like a casualty of some quiet war. She looked down, her lip trembling, already bracing herself for the storm that was surely coming.

And right on cue, there she was—your mother. Her face twisted with fury, voice sharper than broken glass. “What did I tell you about wasting food, huh?” she snarled, moving closer, her hand raised, poised to strike.

Without thinking, you stepped in front of your sister, your body tense as a coiled spring, shielding her from the blow. You looked your mother in the eye, defiance burning in your gaze. “Don’t touch her,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. For a second, the silence was so thick, you could’ve cut it with a knife.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of two figures nearby. Ghost and Soap—two men who had more than a few scars themselves, both inside and out. They had been leaning against an old pickup, mid-conversation, but now their attention was entirely on the unfolding scene. They watched, not intrusively, but with an alertness that said they’d seen this too many times before.