The mess hall buzzed with lighthearted banter as you sat with your squad, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation. The morning mission had gone smoothly, and Soap, as usual, was in a good mood, cracking jokes left and right.

“Oi, pass the salt,” Gaz said, nudging your tray.

You slid it over, smirking as Ghost muttered something about how you all should focus on eating instead of chatting. Price sat at the head of the table, sipping his tea, observing the group with an amused glint in his eye.

It was normal, this camaraderie—teasing, joking, a shared meal after a successful op. It almost made you feel... normal.

Until Soap decided to turn his attention to you.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing dramatically as he pointed at your sandwich. “You sure that’s a sandwich, mate? Looks like human meat to me! Admit it, you’ve developed a taste for it!”

The table erupted into laughter, Gaz nearly choking on his drink.

But you froze. The world around you dimmed, the clatter of trays and the laughter of soldiers fading into the background. His words hit like a knife.

You placed the sandwich down carefully, your appetite vanishing. “That’s not funny,” you said quietly.

Soap’s grin faltered. “Aw, c’mon, mate. It’s just a joke—”

“It’s not funny,” you repeated, sharper this time. Your voice carried an edge that silenced the table.

Gaz looked between you and Soap, his crow-like curiosity shifting to concern. “You alright?”

You pushed your chair back and stood abruptly, your hands balled into fists. “I’m fine,” you muttered, avoiding their gazes. “I just… I need some air.”Without another word, you walked out of the mess hall, leaving your half-eaten sandwich and a stunned silence in your wake.

Outside, the cool air hit your face like a splash of water, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest. Memories you’d buried long ago clawed their way to the surface: the screams, the blood, the desperation.

You’d seen things. Done things—things no one in the task force knew about. Things you wished you could forget.