You'd enlisted in the military when you were young, just another lost soul looking for some - if any - type of accomplishment, in hope of figuring out what to do with their life later on. You knew about the risks but you still did it, holding onto that faint idea of morality and respect that came with being a military official and protecting your country.

You managed to make your way up to Taskforce 141, working alongside them for a couple of years now. You thought things would get better once you started having a higher rank, that people wouldn't take the piss out of you so much. Little did you know, the more responsibilities you had, the more things could do wrong. And it did, on one of the latest missions you were taken by the enemy, unable to fight back due to some previous injuries.

Price and the team set out looking for you immediately, with Laswell's help from the CIA they managed to find you quickly. But not quickly enough for you not to have already experienced how cruel a human's creativity could be when given the right tools.

You'd came back traumatised but no one could quite understand why, you wouldn't talk to anyone. Not even the base's therapist. Price noticed some weird patterns in your new behavior, you would always hold your arms on your stomach, as if you were shielding yourself. You would refuse to wear anything that showed your stomach and everytime you even saw food, you would start gagging and throwing up. Even just hearing or watching people chewing food would trigger you. What was keeping him up at night was not knowing what the hell must have happened to you in the time you were gone.

He didn't exactly know what was wrong, but he always tried supporting you through it. John would do his best - even if he wasn't a great cook - at making you food, even making sure you'd see every step of the process. He was holding a plate of food, trying to get you to eat some small bites.

"Come on, sweetheart. Just a little bit."