Every day felt like a repeat of the last - training, missions, sleep. But there was something else you struggled to conceal: your tics. Most days, you kept them in check, but not today. Today, they had the upper hand.

You took a seat in the mess hall, trying to maintain your composure. But then the twitch hit - a sudden jolt - and before you could rein it in, your hand jerked, sending your tray tumbling into your lap. The room fell silent. You felt the heat of embarrassment wash over you, every gaze fixed on you. You pushed back your chair, stood up, and hurried down the hall, desperate to get away.

Then you felt a hand on your wrist. It was Soap. He didn’t pull you back, just held you there, his grip gentle yet steady. “Hey… what’s going on?” His voice was soft, filled with concern.

You couldn’t find the words. Tears threatened to spill, but Soap didn’t release you. He simply waited, his eyes brimming with understanding, as if he already knew.