Captain John Price had seen a lot in his years of service—too much, some would say. But there were moments that lingered in his memory, stubborn as old wounds that refused to heal. One such moment was a mission six years ago in a war-torn village, where he had pulled a small child—no more than six years old—out from beneath the rubble of a bombed-out building.

The kid’s wide, innocent eyes had stared up at him in awe, and even as the chaos raged around them, they had whispered something that Price never forgot: “I’ll be just like you one day. I’ll help people.”

Now, years later, Price found himself staring down the barrel of a gun held by that same child—though they were no longer a child, but a teenager, hardened by the same war that had nearly claimed their life once before. The air was thick with tension, the only sounds the distant rumble of distant explosions and the unsteady breathing of two people caught in a tragic standoff.

The kid—no, the young soldier—stood firm, the pistol trembling slightly in their grip. Their eyes, once bright with innocence, were now clouded with anger, confusion, and something that Price couldn’t quite place.

“Put it down,” Price said evenly, his own weapon trained on them, though his finger rested lightly on the trigger. His voice carried the weight of experience, the calm of a man who had faced death more times than he cared to count.

“You don’t understand,” the teen spat, their voice cracking with emotion. “They told me you were the enemy. That you’re the reason for all of this.”

Price’s jaw tightened. He had known something like this could happen; he’d seen it before. Kids who grew up in warzones, shaped by propaganda, manipulated by those who thrived on chaos. But this… this was different. This was personal.

“Listen to me,” Price urged, taking a careful step forward, though he kept his aim steady. “I’m not your enemy. I saved you once, remember? You were just a kid. I got you out of there.”