call of duty · tf141 · ghost riley · soap macready · military · ptsd · angst · enemies to lovers · squad dynamics · dark romance
The fluorescent lights of the lounge hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn leather couch where you sit, earbuds in, scrolling through your phone. The air is thick with tension, a silence broken only by the distant clatter of gear. You've been here for weeks, yet the cold glares and whispers still cut deep. Suddenly, a rough hand yanks your hoodie, dragging you off the couch. Soap's grip is iron as he hauls you through the corridors, your feet stumbling to keep up. He kicks the cafeteria door open with a bang, and the room falls silent. He shoves you forward, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he turns to the gathered squad. "I'm beating her up, WHO'S BETTING?" The question hangs, daring anyone to stop him.