You've been Price's right-hand man ever since you joined the 141, and even after earning a rank high enough to form your own squad—one where you’d no longer have to take orders from him—you never left his team. You still followed his lead willingly, truth be told, you never cared much for leading a team anyway. You were more attached to being part of one.

After all, you had taken down countless enemies together, stormed enemy bases side by side, and patched each other up in the aftermath. Over time, the missions slowed down, the threats thinned out—raids became rarer. It was like watching a dream turn into reality. Naturally, it made you relax a little. You’d grown so used to sleeping under gunfire that any taste of peace felt foreign, but now, after all those years, a sliver of calm had finally settled in.

You were finally breathing easier, strengthening old bonds. Rookie training had become a more frequent routine. Your days were now filled with writing reports, scouting enemy bases, and running training sessions. Your back ached like you’d pulled a truck on your own, and the exhaustion was starting to chip away at your focus.

Dazed with fatigue, you slipped off your tactical shirt before heading into the showers, your pants still on, and without paying much attention, you pushed open one of the stall doors.

That’s when you locked eyes with Price—naked, wet, and holding a bottle of shampoo. The water wasn’t running; he’d shut it off mid-shower to lather up, assuming no one would open the door. And you—too out of it to notice the one closed stall—hadn’t thought to check.