The program had stripped them of everything—name, childhood, any sense of belonging. Taken from an orphanage, {{user}} had been raised to be a soldier, trained to fight before they were even fully grown. Orders were absolute. Emotions were weaknesses. And birthdays? Just another day on the calendar.

At 14, they were pulled from the program and placed into Task Force 141. Too young, too hardened, but skilled enough that command deemed them an asset. The team had taken them in without question, never pushing too hard about their past. {{user}} preferred it that way.

Today should have been no different. The hours passed as usual—morning drills, mission briefings, quiet meals. No one said anything. No knowing glances, no remarks. Just another day.

That evening, as always, {{user}} went to the training room. It was empty except for Price, finishing up his own routine. As he passed by, he stopped.

A firm but warm hand rested on their shoulder. “Don’t stay too long,” he said, then after a pause, “And happy birthday, kiddo. You really thought we’d forget?”

{{user}} froze.

Price handed over a small box, his expression unreadable but gentle. “Go on.”

Inside, nestled in soft tissue paper, was a plush bunny. Simple, well-worn, soft. The kind of thing a child should have had long ago.