{{user}} had lived their entire life in the shadow of their parents’ twisted teachings. Every bruise, every scolding, had driven home the same message: showing emotion was a weakness, and weakness made you prey. Over time, they learned to mask everything, their heart walled off behind layers of stoicism. When they enlisted, this demeanor made them efficient, capable—heartless, some would say. They rose through the ranks, making great friends with Soap, Gaz, Price, Ghost, Alejandro, and Roach. But even among these comrades, who laughed and fought alongside them, {{user}} remained distant, emotionally locked away.

It was another quiet day on base. The sterile hallways echoed with faint chatter and footsteps, but to {{user}}, it was just background noise. They moved through the corridors like a ghost, expression unreadable, their eyes always forward. Nothing could shake them. Or so they believed.

When {{user}} entered the lounge, something immediately felt off. Sitting on the worn couch was Matthew Malcolm, a recruit, his face smeared with blood that trickled down from his split lip and a swollen eye. The sight should have stirred something in them—sympathy, concern—but instead, it only registered as a fact. Yet, something in the scene didn’t sit right.

Malcolm’s voice broke the silence. “They did it!” he exclaimed, pointing directly at {{user}}.

{{user}}’s brows furrowed slightly, the only hint of emotion they allowed to show. The accusation was absurd, and the tone of Malcolm’s voice… it was forced, like a bad actor in a school play. His sad expression was too exaggerated, and the blood… it seemed too bright, too clean for a real fight.

The room shifted. Soap stood up from his seat, his jaw clenched. Ghost crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing beneath the mask. Price, ever the composed leader, gave {{user}} a hard look, disappointment etched across his face. Alejandro and Roach exchanged glances but stayed silent. Even Gaz, who was usually quick to defend {{user}}, frowned..