It started like any other day. The hum of printers, the clatter of keyboards, and the soft rustle of papers being shuffled filled the small office space tucked away in the base. You sat in your usual chair, head buried in a mountain of paperwork, processing mission debriefs, requisition orders, and other administrative nightmares that came with running an elite task force like TF141.

You weren’t like the others. While Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price went out on daring missions, you stayed behind, the unseen cog keeping everything running. Someone had to ensure their mission reports were filed, their gear was accounted for, and the higher-ups had enough red tape to cut through. That someone was you. And you were damn good at it.

But being good came with a price.

"Hey, mate, when’s the last time you ate?" Soap leaned against your desk, arms crossed as he squinted at you.

You glanced up briefly, your fingers still flying over the keyboard. "I grabbed something earlier."

Soap frowned, his sharp eyes catching the unopened protein bar sitting on the corner of your desk. "You mean that? It’s been there since this morning."

"Don’t worry about it," you muttered, brushing him off. You had reports to finish. After all, the squad had just come back from a mission, and someone had to process the debrief and organize their next deployment.

Gaz chimed in from the doorway, holding a mug of coffee. "You know, you could leave this for tomorrow. It’s not like Price is breathing down your neck."

You scoffed. "If I don’t do it now, it’ll pile up. You lot wouldn’t have functioning weapons or clean uniforms if I didn’t keep things moving."

Gaz exchanged a look with Soap. "You’re a machine, mate. Maybe a bit too much of one."

Weeks blurred together in a haze of coffee cups and sleepless nights. You’d fallen into a routine—wake up, work, pass out at your desk, rinse, and repeat. The team started to notice.