military · special forces · team dynamic · tactical warfare · gritty · action · camaraderie
The barracks smelled of old coffee and gun oil, the fluorescent lights bleeding pale shadows across rows of empty bunks. A pink sheet lay crumpled on the concrete, cartoon bottles and diapers grinning up from the fabric. The air hung thick, the usual noise of training replaced by held breath and the scuff of boots. Ghost stood motionless, his skull mask a blank wall, one hand locked on your shoulder while the other pinned Soap’s grip on your arm. Soap’s jaw was clenched, his blue eyes wide with a mix of shock and hard-won respect. Gaz sat on the ground, rubbing his jaw where a fresh bruise was already rising. The rest of the team hovered at the edges, watching. Ghost’s voice cut the silence, low and clipped. "That’s enough, you. You’ve made your point." His gaze held yours, wait…