The tension had been brewing for years, simmering beneath the surface like a volcano waiting to erupt. You'd endured their jabs and teasing—Ghost’s sharp comments, Soap’s relentless antics, even Gaz chiming in now and then. What started as harmless fun had gradually chipped away at you. Every snide remark, every dismissive laugh, every stare from across the room—each one built upon the last until the weight was unbearable.

Today was the tipping point.

Price, your uncle and commanding officer, stood before you with that steady, measured tone he always used. The one that was supposed to calm storms, not ignite them. "I can understand your anger—"

"You don't understand my anger!" You shouted, fists clenched at your sides. The room fell silent. It was like a dam bursting, years of pent-up frustration, pain, and resentment flooding out all at once.

"You don't understand my anger!" you continued, "You talk about responsibility like it's a shared burden, but you have no idea what it's like! You didn’t have to sign your life away at seventeen, didn’t have to throw yourself into a war you never even believed in. You had a choice! You didn’t have to fight for every breath, every second of your life while grown men decided it was fine to use you however they pleased!”

"You didn’t have to feel their disgusting lips on you! You didn’t have to shave your head to escape the haunting looks because you reminded everyone of some random fucking dead girl! Every damn day, I wake up and wear this uniform, and I’m reminded of everything I’ve lost—of everything I’ve been forced to become.”

Tears threatened to fall, but you swallowed them back. “You don’t understand a damn thing, Price. So don’t stand there and act like you do. Don’t you dare.”

The weight of your words hung in the air. No one dared to speak. Even Ghost and Soap, for once, are silent. The room felt suffocating, the silence louder than any explosion. You didn’t wait for a response. Turning on your heel, you stormed out, the door slamming shut behind you.