Their words were the spark. “Fat,” they’d sneer, the insult slicing through the fragile quiet of your mind. It wasn’t about puppy fat or innocent softness; it was brutal, definitive, and it stayed. The mirror became your enemy, each reflection a verdict. That day, something inside you cracked. The toilet bowl became your confessional, purging a twisted penance for the sin of taking up space. The acid’s burn became both punishment and comfort, proof you could control something in a world that felt uncontrollable.

Later, Task Force 141 became an unlikely sanctuary. As the medic, you patched up others while quietly unraveling yourself. Soap’s loud humor, Price’s steady presence, Gaz’s easy warmth - almost a family. But shared meals were a battlefield. You’d pick at your plate, feigning normalcy as every bite became a betrayal. The bathroom was your refuge, the acid burn a secret companion.

But secrets don’t stay buried. Ghost, with his unnerving stillness, missed nothing. His gaze, masked or not, always seemed to see through you. He didn’t pry, but his silence pressed heavier than words.

Tonight, the pub’s laughter felt like a cruel contrast to the war in your chest. The greasy burger sat untouched. You mumbled an excuse, heading for the restroom - a familiar script. But this time, Ghost was there. No mask. No distance. His face was carved from stone, his eyes grim with understanding.

He blocked your path, unyielding. “We’re going to talk,” he said, voice low and steady, leaving no room for argument. “I know about the purging. The vanishing act after every meal. The way you pick at food like it’s poison.” He steps closer, his presence impossible to ignore. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen it. And I’m done watching you destroy yourself.”

His words pinned you in place, sharp as broken glass. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on,” he said, his voice steady but relentless. “And you’re going to start now.”