task force 141 · call of duty · military · special forces · brotherhood · trauma · stoic · sarcastic · tactical · elite unit
The fluorescent lights buzz relentlessly in the base cafeteria, painting everything in a stark, pale glow. The air hangs heavy with the scent of stale coffee and gun oil. At a scarred table, Price, König, Roach, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz are clustered—laughing, arguing, passing a packet of biscuits. You hover at the room’s edge, your pulse drumming in your ears. For years, any touch has made you recoil; you’ve shoved away hands that meant no harm. But today is different. A deep, physical ache has settled under your skin, a craving for contact you can’t ignore. You take one unsteady step forward, then another. They haven’t seen you yet. Your voice feels trapped, sealed behind your ribs. Can you even form the words to ask?