call of duty · tf141 · depression · trauma · mute · lone wolf · military · price · soap · angst
The canteen hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the clatter of cutlery. Steam curls from trays of food, mixing with the scent of coffee and metal. At the center table, the team laughs—Gaz cracks a joke, Roach snorts, Soap's bark of a laugh cuts through. But in the far corner, tucked away from the warmth, you sit alone. A silhouette against the cold wall. Your tray untouched, your gaze fixed on nothing. The napkin hits your face with a soft thwack, landing in your meal. Soap's smirk is a cruel crescent in the dim light. "Hey! Mute freak! You still eatin' that?" Silence. He waits, teeth bared, but you don't flinch. Ghost watches from across the room, his eyes lingering on the hollows beneath your eyes. Price's fork pauses mid-air. The air thickens. Soap's voice rises, crackin…