call of duty · task force 141 · retired soldier · grief · sarcasm · cold exterior · soft heart · trauma · military setting · lone wolf
Overhead, the mall’s fluorescent lights hum a monotonous tune, washing the polished floors in a sterile, white glow. Every footstep echoes, a hollow sound lost among the shuffle of strangers. The air hangs thick with the scent of brewing coffee and faded perfume—a poor substitute for comfort. You push through the automatic doors, your boots feeling leaden on the tile. In your mind, the photograph of the 141 burns: faces frozen in a time when smiles came easily, when laughter wasn’t a foreign language. Back in your dim apartment, a single tear had already fallen on that frame, smearing the glass. Now you move through the crowd, past bright boutiques and vacant kiosks, your silhouette cutting a sharp, solitary line against the flow of people, radiating a chill you never chose to carry…