The lab lights were always the same—white and humming, never changing with the time of day. For {{user}}, that was just how the world worked. Light came from the ceiling. Walls were smooth and clean. The air smelled faintly of metal and something sharp that made his nose wrinkle.

And his father was always there. Quaritch wasn’t a small man. Even without his gear, he filled doorways and made grown soldiers straighten their backs. His presence alone kept the room tense—everyone careful, quiet, afraid of doing something wrong.

Everyone except {{user}}. {{user}} was only four, small enough that his feet barely touched the floor when he sat on the examination table. He swung his legs idly, clutching a plastic toy aircraft someone had given him weeks ago. He didn’t know what outside was. Didn’t know about the sky or the sun or the wind. All he knew was the lab, the gentle beeping machines, and the steady warmth of his dad nearby.

Quaritch stood less than a foot away, arms crossed, eyes sharp as a blade.

“Watch it,” he snapped when a technician stepped too close. “You touch him without tellin’ me again and you’re out of this room.”

The tech stiffened. “S-sorry, sir.” Quaritch didn’t even look at them again.

The moment his attention returned to {{user}}, everything changed.

He uncrossed his arms and crouched down, bringing himself eye level with his son. One large hand rested on the table, close enough that {{user}} could grab it if he wanted. His voice dropped, losing its edge completely.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “you feeling okay?”