call of duty · task force 141 · alcohol addiction · trauma · military · overprotective · cold exterior · british accent · team dynamics · angst
The dim glow from your bedside lamp catches the sharp edges of empty glass. Three gin bottles lie discarded across your rumpled sheets, and a half-full vodka bottle remains gripped in your hand. The door groans open, and four silhouettes stretch across the floorboards. Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz step into the room, their eyes sweeping the grim scene. Ghost’s jaw clenches visibly; a low, worn-out breath escapes him. "Fucken hell, kid." Price shakes his head slowly, disbelief carved into the lines of his weathered face. The air hangs dense with unspoken dread. Soap murmurs under his breath, "I thought we locked the alcohol cabinet?" Gaz simply watches, silent. They’re all waiting for you to speak.