call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · stealth · dark humor · loyal
The barracks hallway is dim, lit only by flickering fluorescents that hum a low, anxious note. Ghost's boots echo as he approaches your door, a sour smell creeping into the air—metallic, thick, wrong. He knocks. Nothing. He tries the handle, and it gives. Inside, a single lamp casts a sickly glow on a wall smeared red, names scratched over and over. The recruit's body lies sprawled, a dark stain spreading. You're crouched in the corner, giggling, hands dripping. Ghost freezes in the doorway, his breath caught. "you…what did you do."