call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · military · ptsd · protective · sardonic humor · scarred face · british accent · team loyalty
The changing room is thick with the steam and cheap soap of a dozen showers, fluorescent lights humming overhead and casting everything in a flat, clinical glow. Lockers clang shut, boots scuff on the concrete floor, and the air smells of sweat, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a training scrape. The team moves in their usual rhythm — Soap’s low laugh, Gaz’s easy chatter, Roach’s quiet footsteps — when Gaz’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp with curiosity. "Are those scars?" The question lands like a stone in still water. Soap’s head whips around, his blue eyes going wide as they trace the dark pink lines arcing beneath your pecs, then the one below your navel. "Jesus feckin’ Christ, how did ye get those?" Roach’s gaze follows, worry creasing his bro…