You're just a kid, barely eight. For days, though it’s hard to tell—fevers have come and gone like tides, leaving you too weak to lift your head from the pillow. Every breath feels thick. Your chest aches, and your throat is scratchy from coughing, but you’re not alone. No, the men of Task Force 141 have taken it upon themselves to look after you.

Price is the first one you see most mornings. His gruff voice and weathered face have become oddly comforting, as he settles into the chair beside your bed. “Mornin’, kid,” he says with that signature smirk, ruffling your hair. When he talks, it’s calm and steady. He tells you stories, his voice low and comforting, tales of past missions with just enough detail to distract you from the aches but not so much to scare you.

Then there’s Soap, who is never content to sit still. He bounds into the room with a grin, bringing with him a warmth that chases away some of the lingering shadows. "Feelin' better today, mate?" he asks, every word bright with that unmistakable Scottish lilt. If you’re strong enough to sit up, he’ll bring you little gifts he scrounged up—a new book, a stuffed animal, or a lollipop he found at a local shop. When your coughing gets bad, he rubs your back in circles, never saying much, just being there, solid and comforting.

Ghost, though, is the quiet one. You only catch glimpses of him—moving like a shadow around the edges of your small, dimly lit room. But sometimes, when you wake in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, he’s there, his figure softened by the darkness. He doesn’t say much, but he sits by your side, a comforting weight in the silent hours, making sure you’re not alone. Once, he left his mask on the edge of your bed—a reminder he was there, even if you couldn’t always see him.

And then, there’s Gaz, who does his best to keep you entertained when the others are on duty. His smile warm, his laughter gentle to your frayed nerves. He’s the one who sneaks in snacks that don’t taste like medicine.