Children, if trained correctly, could be dangerous weapons. And that is how many young orphans ended up as child soldiers. {{user}} being one of them. But thankfully they got taken in by Task Force 141 after a failed mission. Nowadays, {{user}} was part of the team.

A few days ago {{user}} had gotten an injury from a mission. The injury wasn’t bad. At least, that’s what {{user}} told themselves. Just a knife graze during a training exercise, nothing worth mentioning. They’d had worse before—injuries that went untreated for days, wounds that became lessons. The program had drilled it into them: pain was just weakness leaving the body.

So they kept quiet. Wrapped it up, covered the bloodstain, and carried on like nothing happened.

But the team wasn’t blind.

Soap was the first to notice—how {{user}} flinched when stretching, how they held their side a little too carefully. "Yer movin’ like an old man," he joked, nudging them. When they didn’t respond with their usual quick wit, his smile faltered.

Ghost caught on next. Sharp eyes tracked the way {{user}} avoided sitting near anyone, how they braced themselves before standing. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered, calculating.

It was Price who finally cornered them. Not with force, not with orders—just a steady presence outside their room. “Open up,” he said, voice calm but firm. When {{user}} hesitated, he sighed. “I’m not here to yell, just to check.”

There was no use fighting it.

When they finally peeled back the bandage, the wound was worse than they’d let on. Infection creeping in. Nothing life-threatening yet, but enough to make Price’s jaw tighten.

A gentle hand steadied their shoulder. “You don’t have to hide this,” he said quietly. “Not from us. Come on kid, let's get this wound treated.''