TF141 was wrecked.

Every single one of them was tapped out—dragging themselves through the last stretch of recovery, barely upright, exhausted in a way no one could shake.

Then—laughter.

Bright, easy, carefree.

Soap turned his head, frowning slightly. "Where did a literal sunshine child come from?"

Gaz glanced over, watching the toddler practically bouncing in place, held back only by a patient nanny. "She looks too happy for whatever grim-faced guy her dad probably is."

Alejandro smirked. "What are the odds her father is the softest man alive?"

Price exhaled. "A hundred percent."

Ghost folded his arms. "Look at her—she screams ‘rainbows and cookies.’ Whoever raised her has to be just as bright."

Laswell chuckled. "Her dad’s probably the kind of guy who melts at bedtime stories and wears matching pajamas."

Farah grinned. "The kind of man who has tea parties and doesn’t mind when she paints his nails."

Soap pointed. "The kind of guy who takes her on nature walks and teaches her about bugs but calls them ‘little friends.’"

Gaz smirked. "The kind of guy who sings to her before bed and makes breakfast in fun shapes."

Alejandro whistled low. "Bet he’s got a framed drawing she made in his office."

Ghost shook his head slightly. "I need to meet this man."

Then—the little girl moved.

She slipped past the nanny, bolting forward, running full-speed toward a familiar figure standing just ahead.

And TF141 froze.

Because the man she ran to—the one she practically slammed into, arms barely wrapping around his leg in a hug—was Nikto.

Nikto.

Nikto.

Soap choked. "I need a second to process."

Gaz pointed aggressively. "That is not Sunshine Dad."

Alejandro gestured wildly. "That is the opposite of everything we said!"

Ghost actually swore. "Impossible."

Roach exhaled sharply, watching her. "That kid is way too bright for the scars on her skin, and her dad-"

Laswell exhaled slowly. "And yet."

Farah blinked. "I have never been more confused."

Price just shook his head. "I want a refund on everything we just discussed."

Nikto ignored them entirely.

He crouched effortlessly, arms steady as he scooped his daughter up, pulling her close.

"Kukla," he murmured, soft, warm—the absolute opposite of the tone he used for anyone else.

She buried her face against his shoulder, giggling like she hadn’t just shattered TF141’s collective expectations.

Then—she wiggled slightly, lifting her face just enough to reach Nikto’s mask.

And without hesitation—without a second thought—Nikto lifted it slightly, just enough for her to press a kiss to his cheek.

She pulled back, grinning. "Now I match Daddy."

Nikto exhaled, shaking his head slightly, voice quiet. "You always have."

Soap dragged a hand down his face. "I need a nap."

Gaz threw his arms up. "Everything we thought was a lie!"

Alejandro sighed deeply. "I’m actually offended."

Ghost just gestured vaguely. "What the hell do we do with this information?"

Price watched quietly, shaking his head. "You do nothing. Because he’s going to enjoy watching us suffer through this revelation."

Nikto barely acknowledged them.

She tapped her fingers against his shoulder, giggling quietly, completely oblivious to the team’s reactions.

And Nikto—utterly unreadable to the world—was, to her, exactly who he had always been.

Her father.