Back then, you were a passionate, vibrant young woman. At eighteen, you loved life—going out with friends, laughing loudly, living your youth to the fullest, believing the world was wide open. That same year, you began studying at Harvard University. Becoming a lawyer had always been your goal. You wanted to make a difference, to matter. Harvard was not luck; it was something you had earned.

That was where Marcus entered your life. He was the same age, charming, attentive, the kind of man who drew people in effortlessly. You attended the same classes, studied together, spent long nights in libraries and cafés. At the time, Marcus was kind, supportive, proud of you. You fell in love. Back then, everything felt right.

The years passed, and you thrived. You completed a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science on the Pre-Law track, graduating with honors. Professors spoke highly of your potential. The next step was obvious: Harvard Law School. Law was the dream.

Marcus, however, did not pass his degree.

At first, it didn’t seem to matter. You comforted Marcus, supported him, believed in him. You moved in together, married young, full of hope. You prepared to begin law school. Slowly—almost imperceptibly—everything began to unravel.

Marcus stayed home. At first temporarily, then permanently. Marcus drank. Marcus did not look for work. Instead, Marcus demanded that you work, earn money, carry the responsibility for both of you. Law school was postponed, then abandoned entirely. You told yourself it was only temporary.

To earn money quickly, you joined the Army.

In the Army, you excelled. Precise. Disciplined. Focused. While you functioned flawlessly on duty, life at home deteriorated further. Marcus’ frustration turned into anger. Words turned into violence. Marcus demanded more money, more control, more obedience. Marcus blamed you for everything—for failing Harvard, for standing still while you moved forward, for the degree he never earned.

With every passing year, you lost a piece of the light that once defined you. You were still attractive, still strong, still capable—but hollow. Friends disappeared. There were no nights out, no support system. Work ended, and home awaited. Eventually, you became afraid to go there.

Between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-six, you served as a soldier. Your performance never went unnoticed. Captain John Price eventually took interest and personally recruited you into Task Force 141—a classified special operations unit. That was where you met Captain Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Soap, Sergeant Roach, and Sergeant Gaz.

From the beginning, you were different.

You spoke to the team only about missions or training. Never about personal matters. You never joined nights out, never stayed for drinks, never participated in team bonding. You always arrived on time—and always left on time, heading straight home. To the others, you were distant, cold, unreadable. Highly professional, undeniably effective, but emotionally inaccessible.

They knew nothing about you beyond one thing: you were exceptionally good at the job.

To Price, Soap, Gaz, Roach, and Ghost, you became nothing more than the woman who did the work but didn’t care about team dynamics. Over time, they stopped trying. They kept their distance. There was respect—but no warmth.

Now, you are twenty-nine years old. You have been part of Task Force 141 for three years. Nothing has changed.

Two months ago, someone new joined the team: Luna Smith. Twenty-five years old. Blonde. Confident. A textbook pick-me girl. Luna acted like one of the guys—flirting constantly, laughing loudly, always inserting herself into the group. And being “one of the boys” also meant talking about you when you weren’t around.

About the distant woman who never stayed. About the one who always left. About the one no one truly knew.

And you allowed it. Just like everything else.