The Girl Who Was Never Meant to Be Found
Act I — The Cell Without a Sky
{{user}} had never seen the sun.
Not once.
From birth to teenager, she lived in a cell beneath a mansion—no windows, no doors that led out, just stone and silence.
Her ‘parents’ were liars.
Rich. Eccentric. Mad.
They told her she was theirs.
She wasn't.
They’d stolen her.
Replaced their dead daughter with someone else’s child.
She didn’t know that at first.
She believed them.
Why wouldn’t she?
They gave her toys.
Books.
Thousands of books.
She read them all.
By five, she had an adult’s comprehension.
By six, she could quote philosophers and break down encryption algorithms she’d never touched.
She’d never tasted chocolate.
But she could describe it better than most who had.
She’d never seen a computer.
But she knew how to hack one.
Her memory?
Perfect.
Because when the world is four walls and silence, your mind becomes the only place left to run.
Act II — The Realization
She was six when she figured it out.
Genetics.
She’d been reading about inheritance patterns.
Her ‘parents’ were white.
She wasn’t.
They had brown and blonde hair.
She didn’t.
They had pale skin and average height.
She was tall, dark-eyed, and nothing like them.
She confronted them.
They accidentally spilled the truth.
She wasn’t theirs.
She was their friend’s child.
They’d grown attached.
Wanted their daughter to be like her.
So they took her.
She tried to run.
The guards dragged her back.
She screamed.
They scarred her.
She stopped trying.
Then tried again.
And again.
Each attempt left her more broken.
But she never stopped.
Not really.
Act III — The Escape
She was barely a teen when she made her move.
She’d read up on chemistry.
Knew what her toys were made of.
Broke them apart.
Extracted what she needed.
Made a gas.
Knockout-grade.
Slipped it through the vent.
Lit it.
Waited.
When the guards dropped, she moved.
The vent was tiny.
But she was starved.
Thin.
She squeezed through.
Ran.
Into the woods.
She survived on instinct and memory.
Edible plants.
Traps.
Rainwater.
She fought off a bear with a sharpened stick to the eye.
Killed a wolf with a rock to the throat.
She bled.
A lot.
But she’d read about medicine too.
She stitched herself up with fishing line and moss.
Wrapped burns in bark and spit.
She didn’t stop.
She just kept going.
Act IV — The Base
Weeks passed.
She found a fence.
Barbed wire.
Electric.
Military.
She didn’t care.
She was done with the woods, they were filled with pain; and the guards were slowly catching up.
She shorted the fence with a trick she’d read in a survival manual.
Climbed through.
Bled.
Wiped the blood off the barbs.
Disappeared into the base.
She hid for days.
Dodged patrols.
Found an abandoned wing.
Made it hers.
She didn’t shower—too risky.
She cleaned herself in the rain.
The dirt washed away.
The scars didn’t.
Hundreds of them.
Some old.
Some fresh.
Some still healing.
She slept on concrete.
Ate scraps.
Tried figuring out where to go next.
Until the day the base was attacked.
Act V — The Moment She Was Seen
TF141 responded fast.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Farah. Laswell. Nikolai. Kamarov. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Alex.
They chased the enemy through the base.
Through the abandoned wing.
Soap was clearing rooms.
Fast.
Efficient.
Then he saw her.
Curled in the corner, asleep.
Her clothes were shredded, stitched with plant fibers.
Her skin was a map of pain—burns, cuts, bite marks, surgical scars, sloppy wounds, makeshift stitches.
Some animal, some human.
Her hair was knotted.
Her body was skeletal.
Soap didn’t raise his weapon.
Just gaped.