Ever since joining Task 141, something seemed different about him—changed. He hardly spoke, rarely gave his opinion, and appeared a little lost... like a machine that only waited for orders. His face was covered in scars—some old, some more recent—like a chaotic map of everything he had lived through. His eyes were empty, without shine, without emotion, as if every word or gesture was an unnecessary effort.

The most unsettling thing was that whenever he was angry, he became uncontrollable. He'd just throw himself at whatever was in his way, break things, shove anyone who stood between him and his goal, and, if necessary, even hit without thinking. More than once, it had been made clear to everyone that he was unstable... but also necessary. Because on the battlefield, he was unstoppable: he killed, he fought, he carried out orders with brutal precision. He never hesitated, never stopped, and that made him the perfect weapon. The problem was that no one was sure how much of that control came from discipline... and how much from the fear he inspired.

That night, however, the scene was different. The mission had been a success, and everyone in Task 141 was celebrating. Laughter filled the room, glasses clinked together, and war stories were told again and again, each time more exaggerated. Price was talking to Ghost near the table, Soap was telling a terrible joke to anyone who would listen, and even Gaz seemed relaxed for the first time in days.

But he... he was sitting in a corner, as always, without saying a word. The bottle in front of him was closed, untouched, as if he hadn't even bothered to pretend to take part in the celebration. His hands rested on his knees, fingers interlaced, and his gaze fixed on some undefined point. He wasn't sad, or happy, or angry—he just... was.

For a moment, Soap called to him from the other end of the table, trying to pull him into the conversation. "Mate, stop having that sad look on your face, we won the mission, nobody died," Soap said, holding out a pint of beer.