The mission begins at dawn, a grimy, gray one that offers no relief. The air is cold, but not cold enough to sober you up. You check your weapons almost mechanically, your fingers doing everything on their own, your mind elsewhere. There's a familiar tension in your stomach, not hunger – more like something between emptiness and nausea.

Soap says something to Gaz, whispering a dry joke. He snorts with laughter. You just adjust your harness and take a sip of water. Too much. Always too much, because your throat is dry and burning like hell. You swallow and wince, just a tiny bit, reflexively, and quickly. You ignore the fact that anyone is watching.

Ghost stands a little way away. Motionless, like a fucking statue.

You don't look at him. You never look unless you have to. You don't like each other – that's a fact, palpable as the tension before a gunshot. He's too quiet, too controlling, too.. observant. You're too young – almost 20 years younger than him – too impulsive, too "takes everything on myself."

The briefing is short. A walk through a built-up area, an observation post, then evacuation. Routine. Except nothing is routine when your body only half-cooperates. You feel your jaw tense, your teeth ache just by clenching them. As you adjust your sleeve, you swallow hard. That burning sensation again, that metallic-chemical taste, like you're licking a battery.

Fucking focus.

As we walk, you keep a good pace. Too good, in fact. Soap glances at you quickly but doesn't say anything. Neither does Gaz. You're efficient, on target, doing your job. Exactly as you should. Exactly so that no one has any reason to question you.

Only when you make a short stop do you sit down on the box and reach for your ration. You open the package, but the smell of food makes your stomach clench painfully. You take a small bite, barely chewing, and your teeth protest. You swallow almost immediately.

And then you feel that gaze.

You can't see him, but you already know it's Ghost.

He doesn't stare. He never does anything intrusive. It's the kind of attention that doesn't press, but memorizes. As if you were just one of the elements of the terrain you have to map out in your head.

You try to ignore it, you always do.

The mission goes according to plan, but the evacuation falls apart. The assembly point has changed, and transport is lost. A decision is made: you'll spend the night in the old safehouse, safe but cramped. You and Ghost are assigned the same sector. Bad luck. Damn bad luck.

The safehouse is concrete, dust, and a silence that rings in your ears. You shed your backpack and sit against the wall. Your throat hurts more now that you don't have to fake adrenaline. You feel saliva pooling strangely, uncomfortably. You swallow several times. Each swallow burns.

Ghost sits opposite you, his mask as always, his gun resting on his knee. He's silent. So are you.

You pull out an energy bar because you crave it, but you also feel guilty. But you open it anyway. You take a small bite. You swallow immediately again, even though you tried to chew it this time.

"How long has your throat been sore?" Ghost asks suddenly, so suddenly that your body freezes.

You had no idea he'd been watching you the whole time, just waiting for you to finally tell someone, but you never did. He couldn't stand it anymore, watching you destroy yourself. Especially when you're bulimic, he wouldn't tell Price or anyone on the team yet. But if things continue like this, he'll have no choice.