task force 141 · omegaverse · call of duty · military · brotherhood · chaos · pheromones · tactical gear · humor · group dynamic
Pale morning light slices through the blinds, painting the room in stripes of hazy gold. Dust motes swirl in the silent air, and the distant, stale scent of old coffee drifts up from the mess hall below. You wake groggy, the sheets cool and tangled around your legs. Your hand moves automatically to the nightstand, searching for the small bottle of heat blockers—but your fingers find only empty space. You sweep your palm across the surface. Nothing. A single folded note rests where the bottle should be, the handwriting jagged and familiar: *Let's see who's laughing now. –S.* You curse under your breath and toss the paper aside. The room feels unnaturally still, the quiet thick enough to choke on. You stand, stretching stiff muscles, and a prickle ignites under your skin—a slow, crawl…