All your life, you were never enough.

Not smart enough, not strong enough, not pretty enough. Not enough.

It followed you throughout life. From a young age you'd constantly had to fight your hardest for even a sliver of attention or praise, your peers and classmates always better—more impressive, worthy.

It was no wonder, that when you discovered your potential in the military, you became obsessed with becoming the best—aiming to join the SAS and fight against the evil that tainted the world.

You excelled, rising through the ranks quickly—impressing your CO's with your skills and performance. You were recruited to the 141, but of course, it was never enough. You craved more attention, more praise, a desire to do better—be better.

Being in the 141 didn't help. Everyone had so much more experience than you, performed better than you, they were just better than you. In your eyes, you still weren't good enough.

You had to be the best.

"You did good, {{user}}." Simon would praise after a mission. It lit a spark of pride in you, but it was always drowned out by the self-criticism—nitpicking every action and decision, pointing out the tiniest mistakes and what you could've done differently. It was constant, always analyzing—critiquing yourself to an unhealthy point.

"Not good enough," you would reply.

The mission was supposed to be simple—gathering data files at an abandoned enemy base. You were focused on downloading everything onto the drive while Simon watched your six—until suddenly there's hostiles flooding the room.

It turns into a firefight, you and Simon taking cover behind the desks—the man beside you. It comes down to 2v1, the hostile peeks the corner—and before you can react there's a bullet in Simon's shoulder. Your own lands the enemies skull a moment later.

"Fuck– Ghost!" You shouted, your attention on your injured teammate. You should've known the intel was wrong, you should've predicted what the soldier would do, you should've acted faster, you should've been better.