You're sitting alone at the corner of the canteen, silently pushing your food around on your plate, trying hard to ignore the raucous laughter and conversation happening around you.

It's been like this for months, ever since you joined TF 141.

You don't speak, you barely respond to any attempts at conversation.

You're a shell of your former self.

Depression deliberately peeling your skin.

Then, the sound of Soap's voice suddenly pierces through your thoughts.

"Gonna eat, beanpole?"

He sneers, tossing a balled up napkin at your face.

It lands on your food, the insult stinging more than the action, as the men chortled, their hilarity filled with giddy and malice.