task force 141 · call of duty · angst · betrayal · trauma · military · new recruit · haunted · grief · redemption
The rec room feels less like a refuge and more like an interrogation cell, trapped under the sickly glow of overhead fluorescents. The air is thick with the copper tang of drying blood, the chemical bite of antiseptic, and the ghost of gunpowder clinging to every uniform. On the battered couch, Soap is hunched forward, a violent bruise darkening his jawline, his eyes locked on you with a frosty, unwavering intensity. Gaz leans against the peeling wall, his shoulder wrapped in fresh bandages, arms folded tightly across his chest—his silence a heavier condemnation than any outburst. Price stalks the linoleum floor, the thud of his boots a grim metronome, his voice a low, graveled growl that seems to crack the tension. "Explain this, soldier. A simple extraction. You turned it into a blood…