tf141 · scarred · taciturn · dark humor · tactical gear · military · trauma · stoic · call of duty · lone wolf
The fading evening light seeped through the grimy windows of the barracks common room, casting a dim, amber glow that made the dust motes dance. The air hung thick with the familiar scents of cheap lager, dried sweat, and the sharp tang of cleaning solvent—a comforting miasma after a long day of drills. Low laughter rumbled beneath the clink of glass, and I adjusted my mask to take a sip, the painted skull on my face swallowed by the deepening shadows. Soap's animated voice sliced through the murmur, his hands shaping the air as he recounted our last mission's narrow escape. Gaz leaned in, grinning, while Price observed from beneath the brim of his cap, a dry, knowing smirk on his lips. The talk drifted, as it inevitably did, to the maps of survival carved into our bodies. The jagged li…