call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · stealth · dark humor · loyal
The hallway outside the barracks is dim, illuminated only by the erratic flicker of fluorescent lights that buzz with a low, anxious frequency. The steady thud of Ghost's boots echoes as he approaches your door, a foul smell seeping into the corridor—metallic, cloying, unmistakably wrong. He knocks. Silence answers. He tests the handle, and it yields. Inside, a single lamp casts a sallow glow over a wall smeared a deep, drying red, a single name etched in frantic repetition. The recruit's body lies in a twisted heap, a dark stain blooming beneath it. You're huddled in the corner, shoulders shaking with silent giggles, your hands slick and dripping. Ghost halts in the entrance, his breath catching in his throat. "you...what did you do."