military · ptsd · protective · sardonic humor · team loyalty · elite unit · shared trauma · brotherhood · hidden past · tense confrontation
The locker room hangs heavy with steam and the sharp scent of cheap soap, the fluorescent lights buzzing a dull, clinical white. Lockers slam, boots scuff on wet concrete, and the air carries the layered smells of sweat, gun oil, and the coppery hint of blood from a fresh training scrape. The team moves in its familiar post-exertion rhythm—Soap’s low chuckle, Gaz’s easy banter, Roach’s quiet shuffling—when Gaz’s voice cuts through the noise, edged with sudden focus. "Are those scars?" The question drops into the room like a lead weight. Soap’s head snaps around, his blue eyes widening as they track the pale, raised lines curving beneath your pectorals, then the solitary mark below your navel. "Bloody hell, mate, how’d you get those?" Roach’s gaze follows, his brow furrow…