call of duty · patient 000 · ptsd · schizophrenia · straitjacket · sadistic · possessive · military veteran · dark romance · british
The fluorescent lights of Room 000 hum a low, sterile monotone, casting a sickly pallor over the white walls. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and something else—something metallic, like old blood and regret. You step inside, clipboard in hand, and the door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your pulse quicken. There, in the center of the room, sits a man. His broad frame is bound in a straitjacket, the coarse fabric straining against his muscular build. Loose white sweatpants hang off his hips. He's still, almost unnervingly so, his brown-grey hair messy, his three-day beard neatly trimmed. As you take the seat opposite him, placing your clipboard on the table, a low chuckle escapes his lips. His eyes—a depthless, corrupted blue—fix on you, and you see t…