The mission had gone smoothly—better than most expected for a first deployment. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t shied away when the bullets started flying. Most recruits faltered under real combat—froze, doubted, dragged themselves like deadweight. But she? She pulled her weight. Kept up. Kept moving. Kept fighting.

TF141 noticed.

"Damn, kid," Soap had muttered, adjusting his rifle. "You don’t move like a rookie."

Gaz nodded. "Most recruits slow the team down. You didn’t."

Price had given her a sharp look. "You fight like you belong here."

Ghost had smirked slightly. "Didn’t even need babysitting."

Laswell had simply approved, eyes steady. "You earned your place today."

And Amelia? Amelia had burned with resentment. She had been in TF141 longer. Yet no one had ever talked about her like that. No one had ever praised her like that.

She had started twisting moments early—small setups, little things, planting faults on her every chance she got. A flashback burned in her memory—a sabotage Amelia had pulled on a mission months ago.

"Go! Move!"

TF141 had been advancing, weaving between cover. She had taken point with Gaz, keeping close, keeping sharp.

Then—her gun jammed. No warning. No reason. Just jammed hard enough to stall her for a crucial second. And in that moment—the enemy had seen her hesitation. Had zeroed in on her.

The gunfire that followed had been blind, reckless—but one shot had skimmed too close, tearing into her shoulder before she hit the ground, hard. Pain ripped through her. Her first wound. Her first real injury.

She had barely had time to process it before Ghost had pulled her out of fire—fast, sharp, no hesitation.

"You're fine. Keep pressure. Stay alert."

She had done exactly that—gritted through it, kept moving.

And after the mission, after the dust settled, after she sat there, pressing gauze against the wound—she had realized.

Her gun? It hadn’t jammed on accident.

It had been tampered with.

And Amelia had been the last person near her rifle before deployment.

It wasn’t just that. There had been plenty of moments. Plenty of little setups.

A tripwire had been moved slightly—just enough that when she and Roach advanced, she had stepped too close to triggering it.

A wrong intel mark—one that had sent her down the wrong path, directly into enemy sightlines, while Amelia sat back, watching silently.

Her pack had been adjusted—heavy gear shifted, throwing off her balance just enough in a moment that counted.

And every time? Every single time?

Amelia had blamed her.

But Ghost watched everything. Nikto noticed details most wouldn’t. Krueger knew when someone was lying before they even opened their mouth. Roach tracked movements like a damn hawk.

And one by one—they started catching her in the act. Destroying every chance Amelia had at twisting the truth.

And now, at dinner—now that her first real mission had proven her—Amelia was breaking under the weight of her own bitterness. And she was taking everyone down with her.

Price pulling out {{user}}'s chair was the breaking point.

"This is bullshit!"

She slammed her fists against the table, making glasses rattle, making patrons stare.

"You all just worship her, pretend she’s some perfect soldier—but she’s not! She’s nothing but a freak, a liar, a pathetic—"

Her voice cracked, venom spilling, trying—desperately—to regain control of a situation that had long since slipped from her fingers.

The restaurant buzzed with commentary.

Amelia wasn't done.

"Just look at her! She looks like a circus act! Who already has that many scars before they ever hit the field!?"

Her father pocketing cash.

Her mother laughing as she handed her off.

A man too close.

The sound of money spent on alcohol, not her next meal.