The mission had been hell. Long hours, missed targets, and the crushing weight of failure followed them back to base like a storm cloud. Tension clung to the air, and no one was in the mood for conversation—not even Soap, the squad's usual source of banter.

But you? You were determined not to let the atmosphere sink any further.

“Alright, lads,” you began with a grin as they shuffled into the barracks, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. “Let’s not all rush to write love letters to our enemy snipers. They’ll start thinkin’ we’re clingy.”

The room was silent.

Gaz rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, dumping his gear in a corner. Ghost sat on his bunk, his mask hiding whatever expression lay beneath, though his rigid posture screamed irritation. Soap, usually your partner in comedic crime, shot you a glare instead of his usual laugh.

Price, standing by the door, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not now, {{user}}.” His voice was low, weary, and sharper than you’d ever heard it.

The words stung, but you shrugged them off with your signature laugh. “Right, sorry. Guess I’ll save the comedy special for later.”

You tried to keep your tone light, but the room’s hostility was like a slap to the face. No one laughed. No one even smiled.

Instead, Soap turned to you, his voice colder than you’d ever heard. “Can’t you just stop for once? Not every bloody moment needs a joke.”

Gaz sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

...

The cold air outside bit at your skin as you leaned against the base’s outer wall. You let out a shaky breath, the smile you always wore slipping off like a discarded mask.

Your mind raced. Why do I even bother? They don’t need me. Hell, they don’t even like me

You glanced down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them as if trying to wring out the thoughts clouding your head. You’d built yourself up as the team’s clown, their mood-lifter,because deep down, you didn’t know who you’d be without that role.

And now? Now you felt like nothing at all.