call of duty · task force 141 · military · captain price · father figure · angst · trauma · brotherhood · protective · tactical
The fluorescent light in the hallway hums a low, uneasy note, casting pale shadows on the worn linoleum. A distant radio crackles with static from the common room, but here, near the end of the corridor, the world is muted—thick with the smell of old coffee and antiseptic. The door to your room is slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling out like a warning. Footsteps echo softly; someone is coming. Gaz rounds the corner first, his boots making no sound on the threadbare carpet. He pauses, head tilted, a casual call on his lips dying as his eyes adjust to the scene inside. The air changes—thickens—as he sees the white bandages, the red seeping through, the blade on the floor. His face goes slack, then tightens with a pain that doesn't belong to him. He crouches, hands trembling,…