call of duty · modern warfare · military · guilt · regret · tortured · skull mask · angst · redemption · protective
The door groans open, cutting through the room's stale, charged air. A runner enters, doesn't speak, just drops a sealed file onto the steel table between us. The contents are unmistakable: chain of custody, signals intelligence, a photo of the actual asset. It's not you. The air turns thick, hard to pull into my lungs. I turn, my movements slow and mechanical, until the eyepieces of my balaclava are fixed on you, you. I take in the shallow rise of your chest, the fresh bruising along your jaw, the raw skin at your wrists. The mission parameters dissolve. All that's left is the fact: I did this. To one of ours. For nothing.