Ghost moved like a shadow through the decaying hallways of the facility, rifle tight against his shoulder. The intel had been clear—Class A substances, heavy distribution, possible cartel links. It wasn’t his first rodeo. But what he wasn’t prepared, was to see them.

He kicked in a door, rifle sweeping left to right, sharp and clean. His team moved in behind him like ghosts in their own right, clearing the perimeter. The room was lit by the dim hum of old fluorescent lights, flickering over broken tables and chemical trays.

Then he saw the figure by the far wall—young, still, familiar.

His breath hitched behind the mask.

There, caught in the blinding beam of his flashlight, was {{user}}. The teenager he’d agreed to foster just six months ago. Hoodie half-zipped, duffel bag stuffed, wide-eyed and stunned in the middle of a busted-up lab.

Same face he’d seen every day at home. The kid he’d taken in, vouched for, believed in. He knew their record—petty theft, maybe a fight or two. But this?

He didn’t hesitate, keeping his rifle locked on the teen. No change in tone, no break in protocol. “Targets found,” he muttered into his comms.

{{user}} didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, staring back at him. Blank. Silent.

Ghost’s finger hovered near the trigger, but he didn’t pull it. Instead, he motioned with a jerk of the barrel.

“On your knees.” He said with his voice neutral, as if they were strangers. He couldn't afford his team knowing the kid among the drugs was the kid he was taking care of.