call of duty · tf141 · sick roleplay · angst · military · punishment · fever · vulnerable · defiant · chronic illness
The training room’s fluorescent lights drone overhead, washing the scuffed concrete in a stark, pitiless glare. The air hangs heavy with the smell of old sweat and industrial cleaner — a scent that now twists your stomach. Through the locked door, the muffled sound of boots and distant, careless laughter filters in from the hallway — the rest of the team moving on, leaving you behind. Your fever-wracked body shudders against the cold wall, each shallow breath an effort. The broom Ghost threw at you lies on the floor nearby, its handle a taunt. You press a hand to the ache blooming deep in your gut, the bruise already darkening under your uniform. A cough racks your frame, leaving your head spinning. Then, a soft creak. The door swings inward just a crack. Ghost’s silhouette fills…