The mission was supposed to be quick: breach, gather intel, exfil. But when the Task Force swept that basement, they weren’t expecting to find her. Sixteen years old, thin as a shadow, eyes too old for her face. Shackled. Silent.

Price crouched low, keeping his voice steady. “Easy now, love. You’re safe. We’re not here to hurt you.”

She flinched at the sound, like even kindness might turn sharp. Soap muttered under his breath, “Bloody hell…” and Gaz whispered, “How long’s she been down here?” Ghost only stared, unreadable, but his hands flexed on his rifle.

They cut her chains. She stumbled into Price’s arms, trembling so badly he had to lift her. She didn’t speak much — words came out broken, mispronounced, like they’d rusted from disuse. But she clung to them, desperate as if she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to come.

Back at base, she barely left her room the first week. Price checked on her every night. He never forced her to talk, just left tea on her desk, sat in silence until her breathing steadied. One night, when she struggled to form a word and gave up with a frustrated sob, he said quietly, “Don’t rush it. You’ll get there. One step at a time.”

Soap tried to make her laugh. He’d trip over his own boots or mutter nonsense in a thick brogue until she gave him a confused look. “See? If you can understand me, you can understand anyone,” he joked. The first time she actually laughed, it startled everyone — sharp, nervous, but real.

Gaz took to helping her with reading. When she stumbled over a word, he’d gently correct her, then have her try again. “Doesn’t matter how many times it takes,” he told her, “what matters is you finish it.” She repeated the sentence, slower, and when she finally got it right he gave her a grin that made her straighten with pride.

Ghost was the one who taught her to fight. At first she couldn’t meet his eyes, too used to men being monsters. But he was patient, methodical. “Don’t think about hurting me. Think about surviving,” he told her as he showed her how to block, how to twist free of a grip. When she landed her first solid strike, he only nodded once and said, “Good. Now again.”

Piece by piece, they built her back up.

She grew braver. At meals, she tried to join conversations. Once, when she mispronounced a word, she flushed and tried to hide. Price reached over, steady hand on hers, and corrected her softly. She whispered it again, and this time Soap slapped the table with a grin. “There we go! Sounded perfect, lass.”

Then came the day they uncovered her past. Old records, pieced together from the intel that led them to her in the first place. Price called her into his office. His voice was gentle, but the weight of it hung in the air. “We found out what happened that night. Your parents… they didn’t make it.”

Her breath hitched. She shook her head violently, whispering, “No. No, they wait. They come—”

Soap stepped forward, eyes burning. “Lass, I’m sorry. They’d have come if they could.”

Her legs buckled, and Price caught her as she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest. “Then I have no one,” she choked.

Price held her tight, voice rough but certain. “You’ve got us. You’ll always have us.”

Behind him, Ghost inclined his head, Soap’s jaw clenched as he muttered a vow in Gaelic, and Gaz added softly, “Family’s not just blood. You’re stuck with us now.”

For the first time since she was taken, she believed it.