You had joined the Task Force not long after being released from your old organization. In everyone's eyes, you were a monster because of the murders you had committed.

All you really wanted was comfort—to be at least liked. But no, you were feared and disliked for your past, some people were disgusted, others had downright hatred.

Everyone at the base kept their distance, avoiding you out of fear.

—--

There was a small party to celebrate a successful mission, and you wanted to join in, to have fun. So, you stepped into the room. The laughter and conversation died down instantly. The weight of their stares settled over you like a heavy cloak. You hesitated, the familiar sting of rejection gnawing at your chest, before walking over to grab a beer from the box. Every movement felt magnified under their wary eyes.

You twisted the cap off and took a sip, pretending not to notice the way the energy in the room had shifted. Conversations resumed, but quieter now, forced. It was like they were waiting for you to do something—something violent, something cruel.

A sharp clink of glass against wood pulled your attention. One of the newer recruits, a wiry guy with nervous eyes, had set a beer down beside you. He didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t say anything, just grabbed his own drink and stepped away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

You exhaled slowly, gripping the bottle a little tighter. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.