call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · scars · british · elite unit · trauma bonding · snarky · group dynamic
The safehouse door groans shut behind you, the echo of laughter and bootsteps from the hall fading into a sudden, heavy silence. The single bulb above casts harsh shadows across the concrete floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the still air. You stand in the middle of the room, shirt balled in your fist, the fresh bandage stark white against the landscape of old scars on your chest. The door creaks open. Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz fill the frame, their raucous celebration dying mid-word. Four pairs of eyes lock onto you, tracing every line and mark. The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on. What will they think of you now?