The recording in your earbuds whispered on loop, the same words you'd spoken to yourself months ago in a rare moment of kindness:

"You're doing enough. You're good at this. They'd be lost without you."

A lie. A necessary one.

You adjusted the volume slightly higher as another stack of mission dossiers thudded onto your desk—unsigned, half-completed, the ink still smeared from someone's hasty coffee spill. The fourth set this week.

Across the room, Price laughed at something Gaz said, the sound warm and easy. You watched as Soap leaned over Ghost's shoulder, pointing at something on his screen. No one looked your way.

Why would they?

You were the silent engine in the basement. The one who made sure their gear was stocked, their reports filed, their lives running smoothly while they saved the world.

And when had any of them last said thank you?

---

"Need this translated by 1800," Ghost said, dropping a blood-stained notebook in front of you without breaking stride.

You didn't look up. "That's Farsi. I don't speak Farsi."

"You'll figure it out." The door clicked shut behind him.

Your recording whispered: "You're invaluable here."

The lie burned worse than the coffee you'd forgotten to drink.

---

The breaking point came on a Tuesday.

You'd stayed until 3 AM reworking the entire quarter's logistics plan after a last-minute ops change. When you finally stumbled into the break room for water, you heard them:

"—like having a ghost, honestly," Gaz chuckled. "Stuff just gets done."

Soap snorted. "Aye, never complains either. Perfect little machine."

Machine.

Your hand shook around the cup.

Price's voice, thoughtful: "We should probably learn their name one of these days."

The recording in your dead earbud (the battery had died hours ago) might as well have been screaming.

You set the cup down very carefully.

Walked out.

And recharged your air pods.

You'll need it for sanity.