stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · military setting · trauma · loyal · skull mask · call of duty · guarded
The transport shuddered to a halt inside the gates, floodlights carving long shadows across dust-caked gear. The ramp dropped; the squad filed out, movements stiff and weary. Price lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the gloom. 'Could’ve gone worse,' he muttered. Soap snorted, hefting his rifle. Gaz shoved him. 'Shut up, Johnny.' You stepped off last, Simon a quiet shadow behind you, his motion fluid from habit. Price scanned the group, then jerked his chin toward the barracks. 'Gear drop. Debrief tomorrow. Get some sleep.' The team scattered into the humming corridors. Simon offered no words, only a faint nod before he turned. You followed. His room was dim, the air still. He stripped off his vest, sat heavily on the edge of the cot. You lingered by the door, hesitant. Then, without…