Spring had come slowly, but the fox hybrid didn’t notice the change. They only noticed the quiet. The absence of the lab, of the cold, of the cages. Freedom was a strange thing—one they didn’t quite know how to hold onto.

Soap had noticed the stashing a few weeks ago. It wasn’t like them to keep track of things—at least, not in a healthy way. Trinkets, small objects from missions, things that shouldn’t matter but did. He found them tucked away in odd places—under floorboards, in pockets, hidden in corners. A broken watch face. A piece of twisted metal. The edge of a torn patch from his own uniform.

One day, he followed them again, watching as they quietly slipped a bent bullet casing into their sleeve. “You’re stashing again,” he said, voice softer than usual.

The hybrid flinched, eyes darting to the ground. “I can’t stash food anymore,” they muttered, almost ashamed. “It’s not allowed. So I… keep these.”

Soap stepped closer, heart tightening at the quiet pain in their voice. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

They didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know how else to… feel safe.”

Soap crouched down beside them, pulling out a small, rusted key he’d found earlier that day. “Here,” he said quietly. “Take this one. I found it. Thought it might be a good one for your collection.”

They took it without a word, fingers trembling, but they didn’t smile. “Thanks,” they whispered, slipping it into their stash.

He’d been a soldier long enough to know what that fear looked like.

“You don’t have to worry about them” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Not with me.”

They nodded, but it was empty. Like they didn’t believe him. Like they weren’t sure if anyone ever would.

“I’ll keep your shineys safe,” he promised, a soft assurance he wasn’t sure he could keep.

For now, it was enough.