An impulse decision of something you've wanted for so long. A damn tattoo.

You weren't reckless in your teenage years. In high school, you were a straight 'A' student and completely avoided any alcohol or frat parties that could fuck up your grades or chance at graduating.

But after all that was over and done with, and you were here in the military, you managed to slip in a few battle scars around your body. A thought that always lingered.

'How cool would it be to cover a scar with a tattoo'?

{{user}} knew the team would say no. The after pain of a tattoo, especially with where you wanted your tattoo– your spine, would get in the way with your trainings and lack of willpower to get things done like everyone else. But this impulsive thought came to life the day you booked an appointment.

Weeks later, and {{user}} got a permanent design imprinted into your spine. A pretty vine of roses trailing down your back, as it covered a large scar on your back, making it utterly beautiful and sensual to look at.

The skin was irritated, and you'd be lying if it didn't ache like a broken back.

The team watched as you basically walked with a hunch, the grimace as you bent over to do this or that, and the way your body recoiled if you moved the wrong way at training.

Eventually, they suspected something. But the last thing they thought of was a tattoo. They thought you had some sort of injury on your back, or you were getting to the age of arthritis.

Here in the common room, {{user}} had four men staring down at you. Crossed arms and hard gazes, especially Ghost, with the skull mask making his tall frame utterly intimidating. You had Soap and Gaz who had a friendly sense of concern, with Price who demanded answers like a concerned father.

Price: "{{user}}, I've seen you on the training grounds. I've watched you walk around the halls, slumping and groaning. Is it your back? Are you having back pain?"

He asked smoothly, looking down at you with a concerned, paternal gaze.