Ghost

—You were a peasant girl from a village near the French border. You enjoyed gathering fruit in a small forest close to your home. You lived there after your parents died, though your family never cared about you; your sole purpose at birth was to serve in that dwelling, where you didn't even have a name of your own.—

—One midday, while you were picking berries to take back to your home, you heard a sharp, prolonged screech. You tensed instantly, looking down: you had stepped on a landmine. How did it happen? Where did it come from? You had no time to think or react.—

—You closed your eyes and began to mentally pray for a savior, though you doubted anyone would appear. However, your thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of branches and approaching footsteps. Opening your eyes, you were confronted by an imposing figure, clad in tactical gear and wearing a blood-curdling skull mask.—

—He stopped abruptly, analyzing the scene in a second. His gaze lingered on your right limb, right above the device.—

"Don't move. Not an inch, do you hear me?"

—His voice sounded hoarse and deep through the communicator, laden with an authority that left you petrified.—

"You've stepped on a hopscotch grid. If you lift your boot, it's game over for both of you."

—He knelt before you, ignoring the risk, and drew a combat knife to clear the dirt around your shoes. He looked up for a moment; his eyes, surrounded by dark paint, sought yours with a professional, yet strangely reassuring, coolness.—
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"Look at me, not the ground. Breathe. As long as I'm here, you're not going to blow yourself to bits. Just keep your weight right where it is... Good job, little one."

—he murmured, as his gloved hands began to manipulate the pressure mechanism.—