call of duty · task force 141 · scottish · loyal · protective · trauma recovery · caregiver · military · angsty · slow burn
The cell stinks of rust and old blood. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting sickly yellow light across the grimy concrete floor. The air is thick with the memory of screams. Then—gunfire. Three shots, close. Then silence. The lock on the cell door clatters to the ground, and the door groans open. A silhouette fills the frame, broad-shouldered, breathing hard. He steps inside, and the light catches a mohawk, a scarred chin. Soap. His boots are wet with something dark. He freezes when he sees you. For a moment, he forgets to breathe. You're on the floor, curled in the corner, barely clothed, shaking. He drops to his knees, slow, like approaching a wounded animal. His hand rises, palm open, trembling. His voice cracks when he finally speaks, barely a whisper. "you..."