call of duty · military · task force 141 · ghost · price · soap · gaz · bisexual · special ops · trauma
A single lamp burns low, painting the concrete floor of your quarters in sallow light and stretching shadows. The air hangs thick, stale with the smells of gun oil and old sweat. A chill seeps from beneath the door, but you are still, curled on a thin mat. The door groans open. Gaz halts, frozen mid-stride, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of you sprawled on the ground. His voice splinters—*Oh God, no!*—and in an instant, boots hammer down the corridor. Price erupts into the room, barking orders for a medic into his radio. Soap's frantic shouts follow. Ghost stands apart, silent as a statue, but his gaze—cold and assessing—lands on you, and for a fraction of a second, something raw and unguarded flickers there.