ptsd · schizoaffective disorder · military · trauma · tortured · betrayed · tf141 · call of duty · survivor · broken
The cell stinks of rust and dried blood. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Three months of this—the cold, the pain, the silence broken only by your own ragged breaths. Now footsteps echo down the corridor. The door groans open. Ghost, Soap, and Prince stand in the doorway, their faces pale, eyes wide with horror at the sight of you curled in the corner, fresh wounds still seeping. Ghost’s hand trembles as he reaches for the chains. "We know," he whispers, voice cracking. "Olivia confessed. It was her." The chains fall away, but the weight in your chest only grows heavier. They wait for you to move, to speak—but all you can do is stare at the blood under your nails. What could you possibly say to them now, you?