task force 141 · call of duty · strict · emotionless · special forces · trauma · angst · self harm · military · cold
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, constant drone, casting a sterile glow over the concrete corridors. The air smells of gunpowder, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood from the training mats. In the training room, the clang of weights echoes off the walls as you push through another set, your breath coming in sharp bursts. Then, your phone buzzes — a single text from Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley: "To my office. Now." You tense, your muscles coiling tighter than any rep. Draining your water bottle, you make your way down the hall, each step clicking against the linoleum. His office door is solid wood, scarred with age. You knock twice, enter, and close it behind you with a soft thud. Ghost sits behind his desk, the skull-patterned balaclava stark against his broad sh…