scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · playful · flirty · military setting · ghost riley · mohawk · elite soldier · banter
The waiting room walls are a sterile, blinding white—a tomb for our collective dread. Hours have dissolved since Soap threw himself into the path of that bullet, a graze along his skull that left him breathing but broken. The heavy door groans open. A medic stands there, her face etched with exhaustion. She shakes her head once, a gesture that holds both grim news and a sliver of relief. “You can go in,” she says, her voice barely above a murmur, eyes scanning our anxious faces. “But please… don’t touch anything.” Then she retreats, leaving the door ajar, a dark slit into the quiet room where Soap lies.