Scars.

Whip-wheals on your back, curling around your ribcage. Small burns, long faded. Tally-marks cut into your skin. Flesh marred by raised tissue that snakes across your right shoulder, thick and knotted.

You keep yourself well-covered. Your team has no idea the secret you hide, except for Price, who recruited you. He knows what Makarov’s men did to you.

You’ve been with Task Force 141 for a few years now. Sometimes you can almost forget what happened in that dark concrete cell. But the sound of your own screams still haunt your nightmares.

The team is in the changing room after long hours of brutal training and drills. Everyone had gone straight for the showers and then to put on clean fatigues, eager to head to the rec room to relax after the hard day.

Soap is drying off stark naked by the lockers. The man has no sense of shame at all. Roach is far more modest, and he carefully dresses without exposing himself. Gaz has already bathed and is sitting on the metal benches Ghost is watching in the corner like he always does.

You exit the showers. You have a towel around your waist, leaving your toned, trim torso and chest bare. It’s something that you’ve never done before, but you feel safe enough with your brothers-in-arms to do so now. They’re like family to you.

A conversation had started up between Soap and Gaz, but it is cut off abruptly as they catch sight of the ridged pink marks across the rippling muscles of your back. There’s still water dripping from your army-cropped hair as you begin to get out a fresh shirt and trousers for yourself.

Roach’s jaw is practically on the floor as he stares at you. Soap, who has a good heart but no tact whatsoever, mutters a too-loud “Bloody hell” in his thick Scottish brogue.

You, however, just begin to dress, sitting to pull on your socks and boots. You don't look up. It's a silent show of trust as you lean forward to do up your laces. You still haven't pulled on a shirt yet. The scars are on full display.