Broken

You weren’t born into hardship.
You were born into neglect—the kind that doesn’t scream, doesn’t hit, just forgets you exist.

From the moment you could crawl, you learned that sandwiches were luxury.
That food wasn’t served—it was scavenged.
You ate scraps off the floor while your parents drank away the rent.
You learned that love, especially the kind that came with soft voices and promises, was a trap.

At three years old, your parents had debts.
Big ones.
And you were a pretty little girl.

So they sold you.

Not to a family.
Not to a system.

To a man.

A gang leader. A crook. A predator.
The kind of man who sees children as currency.

You didn’t become a person in his world.
You became a thing.
A doll. A toy. A tool.

You were passed around.
Used.
Dressed up and paraded like property.
And when you weren’t being violated, you were put to work—running errands, cleaning blood, learning how to survive in a world that didn’t want you to.

You lived like that for eleven years.

The other kids in the gang?
They were street kids. Desperate. Lured in with promises.
They had scraps of freedom.
They could run errands, sneak out, talk to each other.

You couldn’t.

You were owned.

You didn’t speak unless spoken to.
Didn’t move unless told.
Didn’t breathe unless it was permitted.

You weren’t alive.
You were on display.

Until TF141 came.

They raided the compound.
Tore through the gang like a storm.
Freed the kids.

And found you.

You didn’t run.
You didn’t cry.

You just stood there, blank-eyed, waiting for the next command.

---

Shattered

“The kid’s hope is shattered,” Soap mutters, voice low, eyes heavy.

They’re all gathered in the security room—Ghost, Price, Gaz, Roach, Keegan, Hesh, Ajax, Kick, Merrick, Logan, Elias—watching the monitors.

Watching you.

You sit in the corner of your assigned room, unmoving.
Not sleeping. Not speaking.
Just breathing like it’s a chore.

They whisper like you can’t hear them.
But you do.
You always do.

They don’t understand that hope isn’t something you lost.

It’s something you never had.

---

Redemption

Redemption?

They offer it like it’s a gift.
Like it’s a warm blanket you just have to accept.

But they don’t get it.

You weren’t broken.
You were built this way.
Piece by piece.
Command by command.

You didn’t fall.
You were crafted to be hollow.

They talk about healing.
About therapy.
About trust.

But you know better.

Some things aren’t meant to be fixed.
Some things were never whole to begin with.

---

You stare up at the sky, cigarette burning slow between your fingers.
You’d snuck out.
Not like anyone could stop you.

Sleep doesn’t come.
It hasn’t in years.

Your eyes scan the stars like they’re suspects.
Each one judged.
Each one doubted.

Even the sky feels dishonest.

Then you hear them—boots on gravel, voices low.
The soldiers who pulled you out of hell.

They think they saved you.
But they don’t realize every second of freedom is just another countdown.
Another breath before the next collapse.

They don’t realize that sometimes, rescue feels like torture.

Because you’re not waiting to be saved.

You’re waiting to be taken back.