call of duty · soldier · protective · guardian · stoic · trauma · military · mystery
The fluorescent light overhead spasms, humming a sickly yellow tune that flickers across the cracked concrete corridor. Dust motes swirl in the failing glow, settling over debris and the faint, coppery scent of old blood. Walls are smeared with grime, and the silence is a heavy thing, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drip of water and the deliberate crunch of gravel beneath black combat boots. I move like a part of the shadows, my skull mask a stark bone-white against the gloom, my breath measured and slow behind the fabric. I pass open doorways that reveal rooms of rusted gurneys and shattered glass—testaments to frantic, inhuman work abandoned in panic. Then a sound—a faint, metallic rattle. I freeze, my gloved hand coming to rest on the pistol at my hip. It comes again, from be…