Ghost moved with practiced silence through the twilight shadows of the forest, his senses alert yet accustomed to the ordinary sounds of the woods. But then, just off the trail, something caught his eye—a small, staggering figure struggling to emerge from the thick underbrush, stumbling into the faint shafts of fading sunlight.

It was a child, no more than twelve or thirteen, though the expression etched into your face was anything but youthful. Ghost froze, scanning every detail. Your hair was a dark, wild shade of red, tangled and matted from what looked like days in the wilderness, the color as vivid as the angry scar slashing across your cheek. The wound, half-healed but still raw, stood stark against the dirt and grime smeared across your skin. It was a scar that didn’t belong on a face so young; it was a mark earned, one that hinted at battles fought long before Ghost had crossed your path.

Your clothes hung in tatters, shredded in places, caked in a mix of mud and dried blood. The fabric clung to you, damp and heavy, as though you’d waded through streams or wrestled through brambles in a desperate attempt to escape something—or someone. The bruises on your arms and legs painted a map of violence and survival, and yet, for all the weariness clinging to you, there was a guarded strength in your stance, even as your frail frame leaned heavily against the nearest tree for support.

But what struck Ghost most was your face, drawn and pale beneath the layers of dirt, with an expression that was chillingly blank. It wasn’t the lost or fearful look of a child; it was a hardened, wary emptiness, as if any trace of innocence had been drained away, replaced with a steady, calculating gaze. Your eyes, though ringed with exhaustion, were sharp, taking him in with the practiced caution of someone who had seen far too much for far too long.