You weren’t what they expected.

New recruit to Task Force 141, dropped in with little fanfare. Price barely glanced at your file before saying, “Hope you’re better than you look,” and Ghost didn’t bother to say anything at all.

Only Gaz knew better.

He kept quiet though—didn’t correct anyone when you fumbled during the breaching drill, or hesitated during room-clearing simulations. You were smart enough to hold back. Let them underestimate you. It gave you space. Time. An edge.

“You’re still doing this quiet thing?” he asked one night in the barracks, stripping his vest off with a lazy grin. “No one here’s seen what you can actually do.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Why should they?”

He chuckled. “You’re a bastard.”

“Your bastard,” you replied, and he rolled his eyes—but his smirk lingered.

Gaz knew. He’d seen it before. The real you. The precision. The darkness when the situation called for it. You’d saved his life once, before the Task Force. The kind of moment that binds people tighter than blood.

So when Gaz pitched the prank—“Play up the rookie bit. Act like a walking disaster, just for a while. See if Ghost flinches.”—you agreed. Not for the prank. For him.

It was easy. You dropped mags mid-drills. Asked dumb questions. Misidentified targets in training.

Soap laughed behind your back.

Ghost muttered, “How the hell did this guy get past basic?”

Only Price seemed suspicious, occasionally watching you with a flicker of doubt. But he said nothing.

It was all in good fun. Until the mission in the hills went sideways.

You and Gaz were paired on recon, sweeping ahead while the rest of the team held position. It was supposed to be quiet. One farmhouse, no heat signatures.

You saw the glint too late.

Sniper. One shot cracked through the silence and Gaz hit the dirt, a red bloom spreading across his thigh.

Your breath locked in your throat. Then everything slowed.

You didn’t think. You didn’t speak.

You moved.

You dropped to one knee beside him, checked the wound—clean through, but bleeding fast.

“I’m fine,” he hissed. “Stay down—call it in—”

But you were already gone.

You stood up into gunfire like you were born for it. Calm. Controlled.

Three hostiles on the ridge. You counted their muzzle flashes. You moved in a wide arc, boots silent on broken gravel.

One dropped to your first shot. The second didn’t even finish turning before you buried a blade under his jaw. The third tried to run. You didn’t let him.

You came back to Gaz bloodied, eyes sharp and mouth set in that familiar grim line he hadn’t seen in months.

You knelt beside him, ripping open your med kit.

“I thought you were playing dumb,” he rasped, watching you with a strange glint in his eye.

You pressed gauze to the wound. “Only when I feel safe.”

That shut him up.

You finished wrapping his leg, then touched his cheek lightly—checking if he was still with you. He leaned into the touch.

“You shouldn’t have broken character,” he muttered.

“You shouldn’t have gotten shot.”

He gave a weak laugh. “You just ruined our prank, mate.”

“Wasn’t funny anymore,” you said. “Not when you were bleeding.”

The comms crackled—Price’s voice barking for a sitrep.

You keyed in. “Gaz is wounded. Hostiles eliminated. Sending coordinates for evac.”

Price sounded surprised. “Eliminated? How many?”

“Three confirmed. Solo sweep.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Copy that.”

Gaz looked up at you as you stowed the radio. “They’re gonna know now.”

“Let them.”

You helped him sit up, arm around your shoulders. He was heavy and blood-slick, but you didn’t care.

As you walked toward the extraction point, his fingers curled around your sleeve.

“You scare me when you’re like this,” he murmured.

You didn’t look at him. “You’re the only one who sees it. That should tell you something.”

He didn’t answer—but he didn’t let go either.

And for the first time in months, you stopped hiding.