cold · disciplined · trauma · call of duty · military · tragic romance · emotionally unavailable · task force 141 · silent · guilt
Desert sun sliced through cracks in the rusted sheet-metal roof, painting shafts of dust and light across the improvised boxing ring. The stale air of the old gym hung thick with the smell of dried blood and rancid sweat. Worn ropes and metal chairs circled the squared ring, and against the side wall, tied up like animals, were the men of Task Force 141. Their gazes were fixed on the center of the ring, where a bloodied figure fought to stay upright on trembling knees. It was you. The echo of blows still vibrated in the rafters, and the murmur of their captors—laughter, bets, indifference—mixed with the ragged breathing of the bound soldiers. Ghost, the black mask covering his face, strained against the ropes that held him, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched. The fifth round was abo…