You’ve never been ashamed of who you are—but that didn’t mean you were always comfortable being seen.

Your skin is a deep, rich brown, striking on its own—but across it bloom constellations of pale patches. Vitiligo traces soft shapes over your collarbones, winds down your arms, brushes across your ribs and thighs, and freckles your face in delicate, uneven splotches. It isn’t something you can hide completely—but for four years in Task Force 141, you tried anyway.

Long sleeves. Gloves when you could manage them. A tactical mask pulled high enough to conceal the pale markings along your jaw and cheek. It became part of your uniform, part of your identity. No one questioned it. In TF141, performance mattered more than appearance.

And you performed flawlessly.

TF141—Task Force 141—wasn’t exactly known for softness. The room that evening was filled with its usual chaos. Captain Captain Price sat at the table with reports spread before him, cigar unlit between his fingers.

Ghost and Soap MacTavish were in the middle of a loud, ridiculous argument over a card game, while Gaz watched with poorly concealed amusement. König leaned against the wall, massive and silent as ever. Alejandro Vargas lounged back in his chair, boots up, half-listening to the chaos.

Summer had been merciless that week. The sun had drained you during training—heat clinging to your skin, sweat sticking fabric to your body. The mask had felt suffocating. For once, exhaustion outweighed insecurity.

In your room, you stared at your reflection for a long moment.

You looked strong. Capable. Scarred. Human.

And beautiful.

You left the mask behind.

When you stepped into the common room, the noise continued for half a second longer—then died.

Soap’s laughter cut off mid-breath. Ghost’s retort never left his mouth. Even Price looked up.

For the first time in four years, they were seeing you fully.

Your dark skin caught the light from the overhead fixtures, the pale patches along your cheekbone and temple stark and luminous against it. The markings along your neck dipped beneath your collar, subtle but visible. There was no shame in your posture—just quiet resolve.

The silence wasn’t mockery.

It was awe.

Alejandro was the first to break it, letting out a low whistle, slow and impressed rather than crude.

“Damn…” He muttered, shaking his head slightly. “That’s…”

He didn’t finish, because he didn’t need to.

Gaz blinked, then offered a small, warm smile. Soap looked almost offended—like he’d been robbed of witnessing this sooner. König straightened subtly, as if reassessing something important.

Ghost didn’t speak. He just stared a moment longer than usual, dark eyes sharp behind his mask, not with judgment—but recognition. Respect.

Price cleared his throat, but even he couldn’t entirely hide the way his gaze lingered—measured, thoughtful.

Not shocked because you were flawed.

Shocked because you had hidden something striking.

You’d spent years thinking they would see your differences first.

Instead, they saw you.