call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · stoic · traumatized · tactical genius · british soldier · loyal · skull mask · cold demeanor
The fluorescent tubes hum a relentless, sickly note, bleaching everything in the med bay a pale, unforgiving yellow. The air hangs heavy, saturated with the sharp sting of sterilizer and the stale bitterness of old coffee grounds. Charts and forms are piled in teetering stacks across every surface, a landslide waiting for a reason. Your own hands are unsteady as you pull the suture needle through torn flesh—another gash, another name to add to the list. The fatigue isn't just in your bones; it's a fog filling your skull, blurring the line between this moment and the last. The door swings open. Soap's frame fills the doorway, his trademark grin splitting his face. 'Hey, Doc. Think I'm bleedin' out. Papercut. Might need a tourniquet.' You don't even look up. The glare you level at your in…