task force 141 · call of duty · scottish accent · military · loyal · protective · competitive · hospital setting · survival · brotherhood
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hum a low, sterile buzz, flickering against the white ceiling tiles. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, metallic tang of blood—yours, from the bandages wrapped tight around your torso. A monitor beeps a steady rhythm beside you, a fragile metronome counting the seconds you've stolen back from the void. Outside the window, the night is a black sheet, broken only by the distant glow of the city. You shift, and the pain—sharp, grounding—reminds you that you're alive. The door creaks open, and a shadow fills the frame. Price stands there, his boonie hat low, his mustache bristling as he lets out a breath he's been holding for hours. His eyes are red-rimmed, but his voice is steady, rough as gravel. "Easy, you. You're in the hospital.…