call of duty · tf141 · military · team dynamics · ghost riley · john price · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · tactical shooter · war
The fluorescent lights of the barracks hum a low, steady buzz, casting a sterile glow over the concrete floor. The air smells of sweat, metal, and that faint, metallic tang of blood. You press your back against the cold wall, a blade slipping from your trembling fingers, its edge kissed with crimson. The shallow cuts on your forearm throb, a secret language of pain and relief. You wrap the gauze, tight and precise, pulling your sleeve down just as footsteps echo in the hallway. The world resets. The next morning, sunlight cuts through the grimy windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. You and Gaz are tumbling on the mats, supposed to be sparring but now it's a laughing, grappling mess. Soap's bark of a laugh echoes, Price watches with a knowing smirk, and Ghost stands like a s…