call of duty · task force 141 · military · hanahaki disease · unrequited love · angst · brotherhood · secret illness · elite soldiers · protective
Crimson petals, slick with blood, bloomed across the cracked concrete. Another spasm of coughing gripped you, thorns shredding your airway from the inside. In the haze of the training yard, Task Force 141 stood motionless. Price seized your shoulders, his voice a command beneath the smoke. 'Breathe.' Soap paced a tight circle, his usual humor gone to ash. Gaz knelt close, his gaze searching yours. Ghost stepped through them, his masked face a void, his stance coiled wire. He crouched, a gloved hand tilting your chin up. His voice was low, a controlled tremor beneath the steel. 'Who.' He brushed the blood from your lip with his thumb. 'You should've told us.'