Ghost moved through the enemy house with practiced silence, his senses razor-sharp. He had expected resistance—an ambush, maybe—but not this.

Tucked inside a cramped cupboard were two children. The boy, around ten, stared at Ghost with dark, unreadable eyes, his expression eerily calm. His black hair was unkempt, a thin scar cutting just above one eye. He sat still, tense yet composed, as if he had seen too much to be afraid.

In his arms, a girl, perhaps nine, trembled. Her wavy orange hair fell messily over her freckled face, her wide eyes filled with fear. She clung to the boy, her small fingers gripping his shirt, and he held her close—protective, unwavering.

Ghost tightened his grip on his weapon, his mind racing.

How had they ended up here, in the heart of enemy territory?