You had convinced yourself—quietly, stubbornly—that Task Force 141 tolerated you because you were wanted. Needed, even. It was a belief built out of crumbs: a nod in the corridor, a task handed over without complaint, a joke that didn’t immediately turn sharp. Enough, in your mind, to count as being decently loved.
Space was tight on base, tighter than anyone liked to admit. That was how you ended up sharing a bunk with Ghost. Not because of camaraderie. Not because of trust. Just logistics. Ghost never pretended otherwise. He didn’t soften his tone, didn’t make room beyond what was strictly necessary, didn’t mask the fact that your presence grated on him. Still, you filed that away as neutrality, which felt close enough to acceptance to keep the delusion standing.
Earlier that night, you’d lingered too long near the rec room. Roach was there, boots kicked up, laughing with Soap and Gaz. You felt bold—safe, even. Riding that thin belief that you were part of this. So you took the piss with Roach. Lighthearted, you thought. Familiar.
The room went quiet.
Roach’s grin sharpened. “You serious?” he laughed. “You really think anyone here actually loves you?”
Soap snorted without hesitation. “Get real.”
Gaz shrugged, eyes sliding away. “They’re not wrong.”
It wasn’t cruel in tone. That was the worst part. It was casual. Agreed upon. Like stating something everyone already knew.
The conversation moved on as if you hadn’t been there at all.
You walked away, posture steady, expression blank, carrying the belief with you because dropping it would’ve hurt more. You told yourself it was just banter. That they didn’t mean it. That you were still wanted.
Ghost was already at the bunk when you returned, seated on the lower mattress, cleaning his kit with mechanical precision. He noticed everything—the silence, the stiffness, the way you didn’t hesitate before lying down.
"He looked up at you, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask."
“You keep telling yourself they care,” Ghost said flatly. “That’s what’s gonna break you."