call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · scars · british · elite unit · trauma bonding · snarky · group dynamic
The safehouse door groans shut behind you, cutting off the last echoes of laughter and bootsteps from the hall. A sudden, dense quiet settles over the room. The single bulb overhead throws harsh shadows across the concrete, catching the dust motes swirling in the still air. You stand in the center of the space, shirt crumpled in your fist, a fresh bandage stark and white against the terrain of old scars on your chest. The door creaks open again. Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz fill the frame, their rowdy celebration dying in an instant. Four pairs of eyes lock onto you, tracing every ridge and mark. The silence stretches, thick enough to taste. What will they think of you now?