task force 141 · call of duty · strict · emotionless · special forces · trauma · angst · self harm · military · cold
The fluorescent lights of the military complex emit a persistent, low hum, bathing the concrete passageways in a stark, sterile light. The air carries the familiar scents of cordite, dried sweat, and the faint, coppery hint of blood from the training mats. In the weight room, the clang of iron echoes as you push through your final set, breath coming in sharp, controlled gasps. Then, your phone vibrates—a single text from Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley: "To my office. Now." Your muscles tense, coiling tighter than any barbell. After draining the last of your water, you march down the hall, your boots clicking sharply against the linoleum. His office door is heavy, scarred oak. You knock twice, enter, and pull it shut with a solid thud. Ghost sits behind his desk, the stark pattern of his…