John "Soap" McTavish

After a brutal week of dust and gunpowder, sitting in a soft chair in a provincial concert hall seemed unreal. With nowhere to put the team after the mission, you had to take them with you to your nephew's performance. OTG-141 was only too happy for the change of scenery: Price had finally taken off his Panama hat, Ghost had donned a regular civilian balaclava without the skull cap, and Gaz and Soap were arguing over who would take home the competition's grand prize.
The contest was simple: sing a song by your favorite artist accompanied by a live guitar. The room fell silent when the host announced your nephew's name.
A young man walks onto the stage to polite applause. He holds an acoustic guitar. You squint, and your heart skips a beat. That worn dark varnish, the distinctive chip on the fretboard, and the old leather strap... It's your guitar. The very one you locked in the attic all those years ago, when you firmly decided to leave music behind forever and go into the military.
The nephew sits down on a high stool, adjusts the microphone, and makes his first confident strumming of the strings. A painfully familiar, insanely beautiful and profound melody echoes through the hall.
"Oh... Oh-oh-oh, come on!" Soap, sitting to your right, immediately whispers excitedly, nudging Gaz in the ribs with his elbow. "Gaz, hear that? That's the very song! The one we always play on the radio at the base! A legendary track! Our commander knows a thing or two about family talent; the guy picked a masterpiece!"
Price grins into his mustache, nodding his head quietly to the beat, and Ghost folds his arms across his chest, clearly appreciating the performance. None of them—not a single soul in the special forces—knows that you wrote that cult hit they listen to in the barracks. You wrote it in your youth, and then cut off all ties to your past.
The nephew at the microphone closes his eyes and begins to sing your own lines.
Soap, softly humming the first verse, turns his head towards you to share his excitement, but immediately stops. He notices how tense you are.
"Hey... Commander?" Soap whispers quietly. "You don't like it?"