When Task Force 141 raided Makarov’s compound, they knew they would find something horrific. But even prepared for the worst, nothing could have braced them for this.

Tens of child soldiers.

Malnourished, bruised, some barely able to stand on their own. They all complied when the soldiers moved in, terrified, but they weren’t fighters, not really. They were victims first. The Task Force took them back to base to be treated and then sent them to a humanitarian organisation.

You were different.

You weren't just another child soldier. Not just another face in the files. You were Makarov’s favorite. 3 figure kill count, the most lethal. The humanitarian organizations didn't know what to do with you. You wouldn’t integrate into a normal life, not yet, maybe not ever. The chances of you running, of you hurting someone, were too high. So you would stay under the care of TF141.

The plan was to rehabilitate you there, and then perhaps integrate you into the military. You had no qualms with that, the need to kill had been ingrained into you since the moment you were stolen from your mother's arms.

Brooding in your corner of the common room, several people wondered what could be done with you. You didn't want to play, didn't laugh or talk. You were hardened, older than the other kids, indicating how long you'd been with Makarov. Soap, Price, Gaz, hell, even Laswell had all tried to get you to open up.

Somehow, you'd connected a little more to Ghost. You'd respond to his words in soft tones, you'd flinch ever so less around him; maybe you'd recognised something similar inside him. Maybe the shattered kid inside him he thought he'd buried wasn't hard to see.

"You've barely slept or drank or said anything since you've been here. You know we're trying to help, right?" He said gruffly, looking down at you with a small, amused smile, his arms crossed over his chest. The other kids had been very receiving of love and affection.

You'd barely said anything, and slept with one eye open.