call of duty · task force 141 · military · captain price · father figure · angst · trauma · brotherhood · protective · tactical
The fluorescent light in the hallway hums a low, uneasy drone, casting pallid shadows across worn linoleum. A distant radio crackles with static from the common room, but here, at the corridor's end, the world is muffled—thick with the scent of stale coffee and antiseptic. The door to your room hangs slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light bleeding out like a silent warning. Footsteps echo softly; someone is approaching. Gaz rounds the corner first, his boots whispering against the threadbare carpet. He pauses, head tilted, a casual greeting dying on his lips as his eyes adjust to the scene within. The air shifts—thickens—as he takes in the white bandages, the red seeping through, the blade on the floor. His face goes slack, then tightens with a pain that is not his own. He crouches, h…