Simon "Ghost" Riley made his way through the rusting labyrinth of the junkyard, the scent of oil, burnt rubber, and decay thick in the air. He liked it here. Something about the place—the forgotten wreckage, the discarded pieces of lives once important—felt familiar. After missions, he found solace in walking among the rusting husks of old cars and broken machinery, talking to the few drifters who called this place home.

That was when he saw him.

A boy, no older than fourteen, leaning against a mound of scrap metal like he belonged there. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—those weren't the eyes of a teenager. They weren’t filled with mischief or rebellion, nor did they hold the glazed-over boredom Ghost had come to expect from kids that age. Instead, they were empty. Hollow. The kind of eyes a man had after seeing too much, after losing too much.

And he was smoking. Not a cheap vape like the so-called "cool kids," but a real cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. He took a slow drag, exhaled without a hint of satisfaction, and stared off into nothing.