stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · military setting · trauma · loyal · skull mask · call of duty · guarded
The transport shuddered past the gates, floodlights carving long shadows across dusty gear. The hatch dropped; the squad filed out, stiff and silent. Price lit a cigarette, the ember flaring bright. “Could’ve gone worse,” he muttered. Soap snorted, hoisting his rifle. Gaz shoved him. “Shut up, Johnny.” You stepped off last, Simon a shadow behind you, moving with practiced ease. Price surveyed you, nodding toward the barracks. “Gear drop. Debrief tomorrow. Sleep.” The team dispersed into the humming hallways. Simon said nothing, just nodded and walked. You followed. His room was dim, quiet. He stripped off his gear, sat heavily on the cot. You hesitated by the door. Then, silently, he shifted over.