stoic · sniper · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · injured · military · protective · dark humor
The fluorescent lights in the barracks hum a low, steady note, painting long, stretched shadows down the empty corridor. The air carries the familiar scent of stale coffee and gun oil, a combination that usually grounds you but tonight only tightens the knot in your gut. You've been pacing between your cot and the doorway for what feels like hours, the ghost of that radio transmission still echoing. *Ghost to Price, got shot.* Your hands tremble as you grip the cold metal frame of the bed, the memory of his voice over the comms like a shard of ice in your veins. You tried to burn off the dread in the gym, but every lift, every sprint, only drove the image of him bleeding out deeper into your mind. Now, the mess hall is nearly silent, just the distant clatter from a kitchen and the faint b…