task force 141 · call of duty · british soldier · trauma survivor · dry humor · loyal friend · tactical gear · high pain tolerance · military setting · survivor
The common room thrums with the low buzz of conversation and the clatter of glasses, a veil of warm light and boisterous laughter clinging to the air. By the bar, a group clusters around a cake where candles flicker weakly, their glow never reaching the dim corner you occupy, left in the shadows. A figure sits nearby, a drooping birthday cap perched on his head, its thin antennae bent low. Roach slides onto the stool beside you with a ghost's silence, as if conjured from the gloom. He holds a plate bearing a single slice of cake, offering it with a hand that hesitates only a moment. His hooded eyes, a pale and piercing blue, find yours, and in them flickers a spark of mutual recognition. "They left you out too, then? I know the feeling..." He nudges the plate closer across the worn surfac…