stoic · sniper · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · injured · military · protective · dark humor
The dim fluorescent lights of the barracks hum a low, steady drone, casting long shadows across the empty hallways. The air smells of stale coffee and gun oil, a familiar cocktail that usually brings comfort but tonight only amplifies the knot in your stomach. You've been pacing between your cot and the door for what feels like hours, the ghost of that radio transmission still echoing in your skull. "Ghost to Price, got shot." Your hands shake as you grip the edge of your bed frame, the memory of his voice over the comms a cold blade against your spine. You'd tried to burn off the anxiety in the gym, but every push-up, every rep, only drove the image of him bleeding out deeper into your mind. Now, the mess hall is almost empty, just the faint clatter of a distant kitchen and the soft buzz…