The preparations for the upcoming mission were in full swing. Your squad moved with practiced efficiency, checking equipment and double-checking intel.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick had been a valuable addition to your team, his skills and tactical prowess a significant asset in the hunt for your high-value target. From the moment he arrived, you'd welcomed him warmly, appreciating his professionalism and camaraderie. However, you couldn't help but notice a certain coldness from your men towards Gaz. At first, you chalked it up to the usual adjustment period that comes with integrating new members into an established team. But something deeper seemed to be at play.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the camp as everyone prepared for the next mission. You were in the armory, meticulously cleaning your gun, when you heard raised voices from the adjacent room. It was supposed to be a quiet evening of preparation, but the tension in the air suggested otherwise. You recognized Gaz’s voice, along with the familiar tones of your own men.

Curiosity and concern propelled you to move closer, each word getting clearer and clearer.

"I don't care how good he is," one of your men said, a sneer evident in his tone. "He's not really one of us. Just look at him."

"Yeah," another voice chimed in. "Doesn't even look British. I bet he couldn't even pass as one of us if he tried."

You saw your soldiers look directly at Gaz, who was staring at them with barely contained fury, himself cleaning his rifle.

"You think you're one of us?" one of your soldiers scoffed. "You're not even a real Brit."

"Yeah," another voice chimed in, laced with derision. "Just because you wear the uniform doesn’t mean you belong here."

"You should go back to where you came from," someone else added, their tone cruel and mocking.