task force 141 · call of duty · military · post-traumatic stress · existential crisis · tactical gear · cold · reckless · anti-hero · war veteran
The warehouse smells of cordite and old blood. A single flickering fluorescent light hums overhead, casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Makarov's body lies still, a dark pool spreading beneath him, reaching for the cracks like fingers grasping at the last moments of a terrible legacy. Task Force 141 stands in a loose semicircle—Soap with his rifle lowered, Gaz with his back turned, Price with a jaw set like stone. Ghost holds you pinned against his chest, arms locked tight, a wall of muscle and Kevlar. you's hands are still raised, fingers curled, as if they might still reach for the corpse. Ghost's voice comes low, barely a murmur against the hum: "Don't." But you shoves, twists, a raw sob tearing through clenched teeth—not loud, just broken. Because Makarov was…