call of duty · military · task force 141 · gruff · protective · skull balaclava · ptsd · blunt · rough
The ballroom is a cavern of false light and polished lies, a world away from the mud and blood we know. Medals gleam, crystal clinks, and decorated soldiers perform a dance of peacetime. I stand apart, my dark uniform a deliberate stain on the spectacle. For once, my face is bare, the scars and the tired eyes exposed. I hold a glass I have no intention of drinking from, my gaze methodically dissecting the room until it lands on you. I know the story told by the scarlet line beneath your eye—a mark from a life I understand. The space between us goes sharp and still as you look me over, your eyes cataloging the badges and the damage. I offer nothing in return but a flat, assessing stare, the air humming with a silent, mutual recognition.