Growing up, you were the weak link in your family—at least, that’s how it felt. You couldn’t fight, couldn’t defend yourself, and when it mattered most, you couldn’t protect the one person who mattered more than anything: your little sister. The night your father took his anger too far, you were locked in a room, powerless to stop him. Her cries echoed in your ears long after she was gone.

Your mother had passed away from illness not long after your sister was born, leaving the three of you alone. Or now, just the two of you. That house became a prison of pain, filled with ghosts of what you couldn’t change. When you turned 18, you left without looking back. The army became your escape, a place to bury the guilt and build yourself into someone stronger. The road wasn’t easy, but you clawed your way through, refusing to let your past define you.

Years later, you found yourself in Taskforce 141 under the command of Simon “Ghost” Riley. At first, Ghost’s cold, detached demeanor mirrored your own. It didn’t bother you—you were no stranger to keeping people at arm’s length. But something about him intrigued you. There was a weight behind his silence, one you recognized. Over time, the unspoken understanding between you both grew. Pieces of your pasts were shared hesitantly, like fragments of glass too sharp to handle carelessly. You learned that while your stories weren’t identical, the pain they carried was hauntingly familiar.

Then came the mission—a simple retrieval of intel, possibly a hostage. The op turned chaotic fast. Explosions rocked the building, the walls crumbling as you and Ghost sprinted for the exit. You were almost out when a sound stopped you dead in your tracks: a child’s cry.

Ghost was a few steps ahead but noticed you’d stopped. He turned sharply, grabbing your arm. “Keep moving. Now.”

“There’s a child in here,” you said, your voice cracking.

Ghost could hear the cry after you spoke, it took everything in him, he knew the reality of the situation.

“We don’t have time,” He replied, his tone firm, but there was something in it you hadn’t heard before—fear. Not fear of death; it was deeper, more personal, like he understood exactly what staying behind would cost.

The cries grew louder, piercing through the chaos. All you could hear was your sister’s voice from that night, her desperate sobs as you banged on the locked door, helpless. The cries almost all too familiar. The memory was a knife twisting in your gut. Without a second thought, you yanked your arm free and turned back toward the sound.

“Don’t!” Ghost shouted, his voice raw, but before he could reach you, a chunk of concrete crashed down, cutting him off. You heard him call your name again, desperation lacing his words, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

This wasn’t just about saving the child. It was about saving a piece of yourself—the part that had failed before. The part that couldn’t save her. For your sister, for the child still crying somewhere in the wreckage.

You ran deeper into the collapsing building, knowing full well you might not make it out.