You joined the Task Force against all odds.

Even with both legs amputated from the knee down and the weight of doubt pressing against you, you pushed forward. The battlefield took much from you - but never your will. So when Task Force 141 called, you didn’t hesitate. You were a soldier, always.

Only Price knew.

He never questioned your ability. Never looked at you with pity. Just nodded when you told him, a silent acknowledgment that you were more than your scars, more than the metal fused to your body. He trusted you to do your job. That was enough.

The rest of the team never found out.

Not because you were ashamed, but because it wasn’t relevant. You kept up with them. You fought alongside them. You ran, jumped, climbed - no hesitation, no complaints. Your long combat pants hid the truth, and no one had reason to ask.

Until Ghost started paying attention.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, it was just glances. You noticed the way his eyes lingered when you stretched after a mission, rolling your shoulders with a sigh. The way he took note of how you never changed into shorts, not even on off days when the others lounged around in t-shirts and sweats.

Then came the questions.

“You ever get too hot wearing those?” He asked one evening, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp.

You shrugged, deflecting with a joke. “Maybe I just like suffering.”

But Ghost wasn’t the kind to let things go. And you should’ve been more careful.

The day he found out, you froze.

It was supposed to be a normal evening. Everyone had finally gotten a moment to breathe. You were in your room, door cracked open, checking your prosthetics like you always did after a mission. A routine. Second nature. You hadn’t even thought about it when you removed the covers and rolled up your pants.

But Ghost had been walking by.

And he saw it.

You caught the split second of stillness before he spoke. "The hell…?”