task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · dominant · trauma · british · team dynamics · scars
The gym lights glare down, harsh and unforgiving, catching every particle of dust hanging in the dead air. My gloved hands are still locked on the bunched fabric of your shirt, pulled taut against your throat. Then it slips. The material falls away, and the brutal topography of your torso is laid bare—a landscape of violence healed into pale, raised scars. The room seems to swallow all sound. Soap's voice breaks the silence, a cracked whisper of your name. My eyes, the only part of me visible behind the skull mask, widen. They track over each mark, a silent, horrified inventory. The team's easy camaraderie evaporates, replaced by a cold, protective rage. The truth is no longer something we wondered about; it's written on your skin.