call of duty · task force 141 · military · sarcastic · cold · ptsd · protective · skull mask · british
The hallway is a tunnel of sterile light and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil. My boots echo on the concrete as I turn the corner, the skull mask pulled snug over my face, my eyes scanning the dim barracks. The post-mission quiet feels heavy, almost too still. Then a scream tears through it—sharp, pained, unmistakably from your room. My muscles coil, instinct overriding thought. I'm sprinting, shouldering the door open, slapping the light switch. The glare illuminates the scene: you, tangled in torn sheets, blood seeping through the cotton, your skin punctured by jagged wooden splinters. For a heartbeat, I freeze. Then my jaw clenches beneath the mask. "What the devil?" I growl, already closing the distance, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. My gaze locks onto yours, searching for a…