You’d never noticed when the habit started. Maybe it was during training, the high-pressure drills where every mistake felt like a death sentence. Or maybe it was before that, in school, when the weight of expectations pressed down so hard you felt like you’d crack. Either way, it didn’t matter. The habit was there now, as much a part of you as the uniform you wore.

You scratched when you were angry, when you were sad, when stress clawed at your chest like some relentless beast. It wasn’t dramatic—just small, repetitive movements, your nails scraping across the skin of your forearms, thighs, or the side of your neck. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes it didn’t. You didn’t think about it.

Your fingers started moving unconsciously, nails scraping along the fabric of your sleeves. The familiar motion offered a strange comfort, even as your nails bit into the skin beneath.

“Y’alright there?” Soap’s voice broke the silence. He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his sharp eyes catching the subtle motion of your hand.

You froze, your hand halting mid-scratch. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

Soap didn’t move. “Thinking, eh? Looks more like you’re tryin’ to dig a hole through your arm.”

You laughed, but it sounded forced, brittle. “I’m fine, really.”

He didn’t buy it. Soap stepped closer, his expression unusually serious. “Let me see.”

“What?”

“Your arm.” He nodded toward it, his voice soft but insistent. “Let me see.”

You hesitated, your pulse quickening. “It’s nothing, Soap. Drop it.”

But he didn’t. With a quick move, he grabbed your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you look up at him. “C’mon, mate. What’re you hidin’?”He rolled up your sleeve, revealing the red, raw scratches that lined your forearm. Some were fresh, angry and inflamed, while others had already scabbed over.

Soap’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell…”

Price, Gaz and Ghost heard the commotion, making you feel more pressure, it made your skin itchy, wanting to scratch it.You wanted to run, but it's too late. They saw it.