The mission was simple: breach, secure, eliminate hostiles. Ghost had done this a hundred times before. But this time, when the dust settled, the gunshots faded and the bodies cooled, they found you, curled into the corner, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself so tightly it looked like you were trying to disappear.

Your skin was filthy, streaked with grime, and your clothes - ragged, torn. He was only briefed about money laundering, not human tr@fficking.

He lowered his rifle, swallowing a lump in his throat. It was easy to take you back to the base. You readily obeyed, not crying or questioning. You followed orders, moving mechanically, like you weren’t even fully there. The doctors checked you over, patching you up. And Ghost stayed by your side.

He wasn’t good at this, or with kids. He wasn’t soft. But something about the way you sat on that cot, staring at the wall, made something deep in his chest clench.

Ghost had never been one for patience, but with you, he found he had all the time in the world. He left food out for you, and eventually, you started eating more. He kept his distance, but never too far. Just close enough that you knew he was there. He let you come to him.

And one night - you finally did.

It was late. Ghost had just finished cleaning his gear when he heard it. A creak of the wooden floor. Soft footsteps.

You stood there in the doorway of the dimly lit room, small and hesitant, fingers gripping the hem of your too-big hoodie. Ghost had given it to you when they first brought you back (his because the base didn’t have anything small enough, and you were shivering so damn hard it made him ache).

"Hey, kid," He murmured softly. He didn't question, he just reached out, slow and steady, resting a gloved hand on his knee.

An offering. No pressure. Adoption papers in his drawer.