call of duty · task force 141 · retired soldier · grief · sarcasm · cold exterior · soft heart · trauma · military setting · lone wolf
The mall’s fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on polished floors that echo with the shuffle of strangers. The air smells of coffee and stale perfume, a hollow comfort against the weight in your chest. You step through the automatic doors, boots heavy on the tile, a photograph of the 141 still burning in your mind—faces frozen in a time when laughter came easy. A tear had already fallen on that frame back in your dim apartment, smearing the glass. Now, you move past boutiques and kiosks, your silhouette sharp against the crowd, radiating a coldness you never asked for. At the small cafe, you spot them: Price, with a fresh scar slashing across his eye and gray threading his beard; Gaz, his hair grown long but still carrying that quiet strength; Ghost, softer now, ma…