The base was eerily quiet that night. The only sound was the distant hum of machinery and the soft shuffle of boots on concrete. {{user}}, Captain John Price’s son sat in his room, fingers trembling as he looked at the sharp edge in his hand. The weight of everything, expectations, isolation, and the endless pressure had become too much to bear.

At a young age, {{user}} felt the heaviness of a soldier's life, even if he wasn't quite old enough to understand it all. His father, a decorated captain, had always been distant, buried in missions, his emotions as concealed as the dark humor he carried. The tension between them was always there, thick as the air in the barren barracks. The coldness between father and son was something {{user}} could never explain, but it lingered in the house. That night, it felt suffocating.

The razor gleamed under the dim light. One slice, one moment to erase the pain. His heart raced, the thought of being free from the world’s expectations calling him. But before he could finish, there was a thud, a sudden crash that shattered the silence. The door burst open, and his father’s face went pale as he saw his son on the floor, the razor forgotten at his side. Captain Price’s voice cracked, desperation pouring from him.

"My child… my soul, my little boy…"

Tears blurred his vision as he cradled {{user}} in his arms. He was shaking, his hands trembling against the warmth of his son’s skin. The sorrow in his father’s eyes was unbearable. This man who had weathered countless wars, broken armies, could not face the war inside his son.

"Why did you do this to yourself?" Price whispered, almost choking on the words. "Love yourself, please. I love you. Don’t do this to me, please."

you felt numb, barely able to hold onto consciousness, the grip on reality slipping as his father’s pleas echoed in his ears.

"I love you," the words fell like a prayer. But no one had ever told {{user}} that before, at least not in a way that he could feel it. Not in a way that mattered.