novalityy

[novalityy]

No going back, Part three.

⋆·˚ ༘*🔭 In which a call is way more concerning than it seemed.⋆·˚ *🔭

Warnings *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - Blood, fighting, arguments, framing, crying, torture, taskforce 141 being mean, angst, death (only couple minutes)

Hi babies! How y'all doing, I've been loving the comments, love y'all enjoy this part, imma upload the fourth part today too <3 just give me some time.

“Fuck, they’re coding! Get the stretcher ready and start CPR, quick!” one of the medics shouted, their voice urgent.

The room seemed to pause as the words registered, a heavy silence settling over everyone except the medics, who moved swiftly.

The sound of monitors and equipment being adjusted filled the space, but for the others, time felt like it had slowed.

Gaz stood frozen at first, his eyes wide with shock, before his hands came up to cover his face. He paced a short line back and forth, muttering under his breath. His voice cracked when he finally spoke, almost a whisper. “They can’t... they can’t go like this.”

Soap’s breathing quickened, his hands trembling as he clasped them behind his neck. He didn’t say anything, but the way his gaze stayed locked on you spoke volumes. His lips moved silently, as if he were trying to pray, but no words came out.

Price leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his forehead. His jaw tightened as he watched the medics work, proving to be the calmest yet empathetic of the bunch. His fingers flexed restlessly at his sides, but he stayed out of the way, for once unsure of what to do and not wanting to get into the way.

Ghost stood apart from the group, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched. His mask gave nothing away, but his shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, it was clear he was panicking too.

Laswell was silent, standing closest to you. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. You were more than a soldier to her, and the realization that you might not make it hit her hard.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, torn between the urge to stay put and help or lash out at the four men who had let this happen.

None of them had wanted this. Not like this.

They hadn’t meant for things to go so far that the medics were fighting to restart your heart.

＊��̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

The stretcher arrived with a sharp clatter of wheels, and the medics wasted no time.

The lead medic—a doctor, by the sound of his firm, commanding voice—stepped up, snapping orders.

“On my count! On three, we stop CPR, haul them up, and you jump on top to continue. Got it?”

“Clear!” shouted the medic performing CPR, his hands never leaving your chest as he kept a steady rhythm.

“Three, two, one—move!”

In one seamless motion, the medic stepped back, and three others hoisted you onto the stretcher. The fourth was already moving, climbing onto the stretcher with practiced ease, resuming chest compressions without missing a beat.

“Quick! To the infirmary!” the lead medic barked, urgency sharp in his tone.

The stretcher surged forward, wheels screeching against the floor as the medics pushed with everything they had. The room blurred around them, every second feeling like a battle. The team moved as one, their focus unshakable, their movements synchronized like clockwork.

Laswell stood frozen, watching the chaos unfold. For the first time in what felt like hours, something other than anger or dread flickered in her expression. She saw the medics for what they were—a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in the middle of this nightmare.

In that fleeting moment, she thought to herself: These are the real heroes. The real treasure of America.

Her eyes followed the stretcher until it disappeared down the hallway, the sound of hurried footsteps and shouted commands fading into the distance.

Left behind in the room, the others stood silent, the weight of what had just happened settling heavily over them.

None of them spoke.

What could they possibly say?

For now, all they could do was wait—and hope.

Laswell turned to face them, her expression dark and unforgiving.

“You all are in a fuck ton of trouble,” she growled, her voice low and venomous. “And I’ll make damn sure you pay for it.”

Angry didn’t even begin to describe her. Rage burned hot and sharp in her chest, and for a fleeting moment, she thought about adding more blood to the already crimson-streaked room. But she stopped herself.

You needed her more than she needed vengeance.

Without another word, she turned her back on them and sprinted after the medics.

You were her priority now.

They weren’t worth a second more of her attention.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

The waiting that followed was nothing short of hell.

Ten long, agonizing hours with no news.

No confirmation if you were dead, alive, or stuck in surgery.

The sterile hallway outside the infirmary felt suffocating, the silence stretching unbearably.

None of them moved, not an inch. It wasn’t loyalty that kept them rooted—it was guilt. Heavy, crushing guilt.

They knew they’d crossed a line they could never uncross.

They could kiss the old you goodbye: your laugh, your kindness, your annoying little quirks.

All the things that made you you.

Even if you survived, they doubted you’d ever be the same.

When the door finally pushed open, the sound snapped all of them to attention.

A doctor in surgery scrubs emerged, her expression sharp and cold. Her eyes flicked over the group, lingering on Laswell before settling on Price.

“In my twenty years of working with you at the same base, Price,” she began, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade, “I have never been more angry and disappointed in you.”

Her words hit like a gut punch. Price stiffened, his lips pressed into a tight line, but he said nothing. None of them did.

The doctor’s glare swept across the group before nodding to Laswell.

“They’re alive,” she said, her tone clipped. “But critical. No visitors—except Laswell.”

“Bu—” Soap started, only to be cut off.

“No arguments!”

The doctor’s voice was sharp as steel, and Laswell joined her, matching her intensity.

“You think they want to see any of you when they wake up?” Laswell snapped, her eyes narrowing as they swept over each of them. She was done with their excuses, their justifications.

She was done with them.

Turning back to the doctor, she softened just slightly.

“Are they awake?”

The doctor shook her head, sighing as she adjusted her glasses.

“No. They lost a lot of blood—externally and internally. That’s why their heart stopped. You were in the nick of time, Kate. If you’d been ten minutes later, they’d be dead.”

The words hit like a hammer, and Laswell froze.

The others went completely still, even Ghost, whose ever-composed demeanor cracked at the edges.

Laswell clenched her fists, trembling with suppressed rage, but she held it back.

You were her priority now.

Revenge could wait.

The doctor continued, her tone professional but grim.

“We stitched them up—deep slashes, some broken ribs, and other injuries I won’t bore you with now, you can read the full report later. They’re unconscious. We decided to place them in a medically induced coma to give them a better chance of healing.”

Laswell nodded tightly, absorbing every word.

“You can come with me if you want to see them,” the doctor added. “But don’t expect them to wake up anytime soon. They’ll be out for at least four days.”

Laswell took a breath, steadying herself.

“Take me to them,” she said, her voice firm.

The doctor turned, leading the way down the hall.

Laswell didn’t look back at the others.

They weren’t her concern.

Not now.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

"Oh my god, why is everything hurting?" you groaned, your voice weak and barely audible.

Every word felt like an effort, like it was being dragged through the haze of pain clouding your mind.

Laswell shot up from her chair, the life returning to her face like someone had flipped a switch.

Relief flooded her features as she grabbed your hand, her fingers wrapping firmly around yours in an attempt to warm your icy skin.

"You're awake," she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to betray the weight she’d been carrying.

Your eyelids fluttered open, the sterile brightness of the room making you wince. Blinking away the disorientation, your gaze landed on Laswell’s face. You sighed shakily—at least it was her.

Relief flickered briefly in your chest before it was crushed under the weight of memory.

Then it hit you.

A hitch in your breath.

The beeping of the heart monitor quickened, matching the frantic pace of your panic.

You remembered them. What they did to you.

How it felt.

"Kate!" you gasped, your voice cracking as your trembling hands reached out for her.

"They—they did this to me!"

The words stumbled out in a broken rush, your body trembling as you clung to her like a lifeline.

You needed her steady presence, her strength, her assurance that you weren’t alone in this.

"Yes, baby. I know."

Laswell’s voice was low and soothing, her hands immediately adjusting to support you.

She shifted closer, carefully wrapping an arm around you without pressing against your injuries.

“But you need to breathe for me, okay? Deep breaths. In… and out.”

Her voice guided you, calm and unwavering despite the storm inside her.

You followed her instructions, your breaths uneven at first but gradually steadying as the heart monitor's frantic rhythm began to slow. Her hand stroked your back gently, grounding you with every touch.

When she was sure you were calm, Laswell pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Her expression was firm, but her gaze was full of a tenderness meant only for you.

“They will pay,” she said, her voice low but resolute.

"I promise you that. They’ll never get away with this."

You hiccupped, nodding slowly. Tears blurred your vision, but her words gave you a fragile sense of safety. She was here.

She had your back.

Laswell’s grip on your hand tightened slightly as she studied your face.

"Do you want to transfer?" she asked, her voice soft but serious.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, but now that she’d said it, you felt the weight of the question settle heavily on you.

The idea of leaving—starting fresh somewhere far away from the memories of what happened—was tempting.

But it also meant leaving behind everything else you’d built here.

You blinked up at her, searching her eyes for answers. Laswell stayed quiet, letting you take your time, her gaze steady and reassuring.

She would support you no matter what choice you made. Of that, you were certain.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

HELP, I DONT LIKE IT SHOULD I JUST DELETE IT CHAT???

Tag list＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚ -> @gaiagurl05 @msjaeger @notsochillnerd @cocklivers @sensiblesomething @kaoyamamegami @ryanisasleep @wqlverines @riameriash @perfect-insomniac

[novalityy]

No going back, Part two.

⋆·˚ ༘*🔭 In which a call is way more concerning than it seemed.⋆·˚ *🔭

Warnings *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - Blood, fighting, arguments, framing, crying, torture, taskforce 141 being mean, angst, some comfort? Tell me if I forgot some!

Call of duty taskforce 141 x reader.

HI Everyone! How are y'all? I have finished part two, please give me some ideas on how this story should end! I hope y'all enjoyed thisssssss :)

For the past twenty-four hours, all you had felt was pure, unrelenting agony. The pain was a maddening blend of physical and mental torment, twisting and gnawing at every last shred of your will. That you’d managed to stay awake for the last day surprised even you.

It was a cruel sort of perseverance, one that left you teetering on the edge of reason. Blinking with the only eye that wasn’t swollen shut, you cast your gaze downward, focusing on your lap, on the wreckage of yourself.

Blood. It was everywhere.

The white shirt you had pulled on that morning—clean and bright—was now drenched in crimson. No trace of its original color remained. Your jeans, once a comfortable faded blue, had turned so dark with blood they now looked black. The sticky warmth clung to you, soaking your skin, seeping into every fiber, until it felt like even your soul might be bleeding out.

The sheer amount of blood you’d lost was staggering, and yet here you were, somehow still breathing. Not for much longer, though.

A bitter laugh—if it could even be called that—escaped your lips, gurgling through the blood pooling in your throat. So this was how it would end, not in some grand act of heroism, not even in a blaze of reckless glory, but here, like this. Alone, bleeding out.

No, not alone.

Your gaze shifted upwards, slow and heavy, and there he was. Jho—no, Soap.

You refused to call them by their real names anymore. It made it easier that way. At least, you told yourself it did. Calling him “Soap” put distance between you, a barrier against the raw, aching betrayal that carved deeper wounds than any knife ever could.

He stood a few feet away, his posture tense, shoulders hunched like a man carrying the weight of the world. Or maybe the weight of what he’d done. Of what they had all done.

Out of all of them, Soap had come the farthest while trying to avoid hurting you. His blows landed softer, his hands hesitated. But it wasn’t mercy—not really. Even now, he looked like he was barely holding himself together, struggling against the very actions he had chosen to take. And yet, despite his visible anguish, he had still done it.

He had crossed a line that no amount of guilt could erase.

Soap had always been an open book. Honest to a fault, with a heart that wore its emotions like a badge. You used to admire that about him, the way he seemed to carry a soul so full of light and warmth, even in the darkest places. But now? Now you hated him for it. Because it made this worse. It made him harder to hate in the way you needed to, and yet you hated him all the same.

You never thought you’d feel that way about him. The Scott who could make anyone laugh, who could turn the worst of days into something almost bearable. But he wasn’t that person anymore—not to you. He had become something else, someone who had carved pain into your body and left you drowning in it.

And yet, there was no mistaking the anguish on his face now. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The faint tremor in his hands was just visible, even as he tried to hide it by clenching them into fists. He looked at you as though he might shatter under the weight of it all, but you refused to let it move you. Refused to let that flicker of humanity sway you.

Because no matter how much it hurt him to do this, it had hurt you more.

“I hope it was worth it,” you croaked, your voice barely more than a wet rasp. The words sliced through the heavy silence between you, and for the first time, Soap flinched.

Good, you thought. Let him feel it. Let him carry this.

And yet, even as the hatred burned brightly within you, a part of you—the part you hated most—couldn’t help but mourn the loss of who he used to be. Of who you both used to be.

The door creaked open, and you flinched, your entire body tensing. Gaz entered the room, his presence suffocating, his footsteps heavy with purpose. A shiver of dread rippled through you.

Soap had guilt written all over his face, but Gaz wore his emotions differently—his anger burned hot and wild. And his anger was strong. He had done almost as much damage as Ghost, and it showed in the way he looked at you now.

"Stop trying to guilt him," Gaz spat, his tone sharp and biting. "You’re the one who decided to be Makarov’s bitch."

The words stung, sharp as a knife, but you forced yourself to look at him, even as your chest tightened.

"You’re still stuck on that," you rasped, your voice weak and uneven.

The effort of speaking tore at your throat, and a coughing fit escaped you, bringing blood up with it. You turned your head, spitting it onto the floor, crimson droplets against the cold, gray cement. When you continued, your voice was quieter but steady.

"I am not the one who did it—"

Before you could finish, his fist connected with your face. The impact was brutal, sending you and the chair toppling to the ground. Your head slammed into the floor, pain radiating through your skull. The chair beneath you cracked, its jagged edges pressing painfully into your side.

You groaned, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your vision blurred as tears and blood mixed together, and for a moment, all you could do was lie there, breathing heavily.

Panic clawed at your throat, threatening to take over, but you forced it down. You can’t panic. Not now. Not here.

Gaz crouched beside you, his light eyes blazing with fury. His jaw was tight, his breathing harsh. He slapped your cheek hard enough to sting, forcing your eye open.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and venomous.

You did. Slowly, your one good eye fluttered open, your gaze locking with his.

For a moment, something shifted. His expression froze, the rage faltering. Your eye—your only remaining window to the world—looked dead.

The spark, the fight, the defiance that used to burn so brightly was gone. Completely. Utterly. Gone.

You were gone.

That single moment of eye contact hit him like a punch to the gut.

His anger didn’t vanish, but it cracked, if only slightly.

You could see it in the way his jaw slackened for a split second, the way his breath hitched.

He rose abruptly, towering over you as his fists clenched at his sides. His anger returned, shielding him from whatever emotions had started to surface. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, Soap following him, the door slamming shut behind them.

You lay there for a long moment, your body broken, blood pooling beneath you. Every breath was a struggle, every second dragged like an eternity.

But it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed you. It was the mental.

Closing your eye, you let the pain and exhaustion consume you.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

The sudden yelling jolted you awake, pulling you from the edge of unconsciousness. A female voice cut through the haze, sharp and desperate, and it was getting closer to where your body lay in a pool of your own blood on the cold, unforgiving floor.

You felt hands on you, hurried and frantic, as the restraints holding you down were pulled away. A firm grip steadied your limp form, propping you up against a warm body.

“Sweetheart! Wake up! C’mon! CALL THE FUCKING MEDICS!”

The voice was familiar, laced with authority and a kind of raw emotion you weren’t used to hearing from her. Laswell. It was Laswell.

Creaking your eye open, you caught sight of her blonde hair, disheveled and wild.

Her face was a mixture of fury and something else—fear, maybe? You couldn’t tell.

A faint smile pulled at your cracked lips, though it didn’t reach your eyes. It was all you could manage, a fleeting gesture that likely did nothing to ease her panic.

“HOW COULD YOU? UNDER WHAT PROOF?”

Laswell’s voice rose again, trembling with rage as she turned her fury elsewhere.

“I AM THE ONE WHO MAKES THESE DECISIONS. YOU HAVE NO INTEL, NO RIGHT, NO FUCKING SKILL TO DETERMINE WHO THE TRAITOR IS! AND IF YOU DO YOU REPORT TO ME!”

You blinked sluggishly, your mind struggling to keep up.

It took you a moment to figure out who she was yelling at, but then you heard the sound of boots scuffing against the floor. More feet entering the room.

A few sharp gasps followed as they took in the sight of you, and you could imagine why. You probably looked as close to death as anyone could without actually crossing over.

Laswell’s grip on you loosened, her touch lingering for a moment before she let go.

You felt other hands now—gentler, quicker. The medics.

The cool sting of antiseptic, the pinch of needles, and muffled voices surrounded you as they worked.

You couldn’t hold on anymore.

The weight of it all—pain, exhaustion, betrayal—dragged you down. Your good eye fluttered closed, the world fading into darkness once more.

And this time, you didn’t fight it. You went limp.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

holy shit, I loved this, I hope u too?????? Ily all thank y'all so much for the kind comments y'all deserve the world!

Tag list＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚ -> @gaiagurl05 @msjaeger @notsochillnerd @cocklivers @sensiblesomething

[novalityy]

No going back.

⋆·˚ ༘*🔭 In which a call is way more concerning than it seemed.⋆·˚ *🔭

Warnings *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - Blood, fighting, arguments, framing, crying, torture, taskforce 141 being mean, angst, comfort later.

Call of duty taskforce 141 x reader.

Hi, lol i'm back. Sorry I deleted my blog all of a sudden. I had to go for a long time, it's been a year? I'm going to rewrite the original story since i kindaa... deleted them..IM SORRY.

Blood trickled from your forehead, warm and sticky, as the dull ache in your skull pulsed with your racing heartbeat. The throbbing in your head was intense, but it paled in comparison to the crushing weight of betrayal in your chest. You groaned, instinctively trying to lift a hand to your temple, only to find your wrists bound tightly together. The rough bite of the restraints against your skin pulled you fully into the present. Forcing your eyes open, you took in your surroundings. The room was unmistakable—your base’s interrogation chamber.

Empty, save for you.

Your mind raced, piecing together the fragmented memories of how you ended up here. When you answered Price’s call this morning, this was the last place you expected to find yourself.

The morning had started innocuously enough. Your phone buzzed insistently, dragging you from the haze of sleep. Grumbling, you fumbled for it under your pillow, blindly swiping to answer.

“Hello?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Silence.

You pulled the phone away to glance at the screen. Price. His name stared back at you, ominous and foreboding.

“Price?” you tried again, sitting up now.

His voice, when it came, was clipped and cold. “I expect you at the base in 30 minutes.”

Before you could respond, the line went dead. You stared at the phone, unease curling in your stomach. Price was rarely one for pleasantries, but the venom in his tone was unmistakable.

Shaking off the lingering fog of sleep, you swung your legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the toll of your last mission—dark circles under your eyes, a faint bruise along your jaw. You sighed, splashing cold water on your face before pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a plain white shirt.

Breakfast could wait. The urgency in Price’s voice left little room for delay. Grabbing your keys, you locked up and drove to base, the gnawing anxiety in your gut growing stronger with every mile.

As you arrived, the atmosphere was palpably different. Conversations hushed as you walked past, and familiar faces turned away, avoiding your gaze. The unease in your stomach churned into something darker.

By the time you reached Price’s office, your nerves were frayed. Knocking on the door, you pushed it open and froze. Four men were inside, their expressions grim. Gaz wouldn’t meet your eyes, staring down at his feet. Soap’s usual easygoing demeanor was absent, his jaw set tightly. Ghost loomed in the corner, his unreadable mask doing little to hide the tension radiating from him. And Price… Price’s eyes burned with something you couldn’t quite name but feared all the same.

“So?” you asked, your voice wavering despite your efforts to keep it steady. “You called me here. What’s going on?”

Price exhaled a cloud of smoke, his cigar nearly crushed in his grip. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “Drop the act. Tell me everything. Now.”

Confusion twisted your features. “What are you talking about?”

Price’s response was immediate and explosive.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, the force rattling the items atop it.

“I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR GAMES, OPERATOR! CONFESS, AND I MIGHT SPARE YOU HALF OF WHAT’S COMING!”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Operator. Not your name. Whatever this was, it was serious.

You glanced at the others, searching for an ally, but found none. Even Soap looked away when your eyes met his.

“Please,” Soap said softly, his voice almost pleading. “Just tell him. It’ll be worse if you don’t, bonnie.”

Your throat tightened. “Tell him what?” you demanded, anger starting to edge into your voice. “If this is some sick joke, it’s not funny. I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but—”

The door creaked open, cutting you off. A young cadet stepped inside, tall and blonde, his sharp blue eyes locking onto you with cold calculation. Recognition flickered—you’d seen him around the base, but you’d never exchanged more than a few words.

Price gestured to him. “Tell her.”

The cadet’s voice was steady, rehearsed. “I have proof that you’ve been leaking critical intel to Makarov.”

The room spun. You stared at him, then at the others, waiting for someone to laugh, to call this out for the absurdity it was. But no one did. Instead, Ghost’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp.

“We believe him.”

Your gaze snapped to him, disbelief written across your face. “Simon…”

“Don’t call me that,” he growled. “We’re not that familiar anymore.”

The words were a knife to the chest. You turned to Price, desperation creeping into your tone. “Show me the proof.”

He slammed a file onto the desk. You snatched it up, flipping through the pages. The evidence was damning—emails, login records, reports. It painted a picture so convincing you almost doubted yourself. Almost.

But the dates didn’t line up. The locations didn’t match. It was sloppy work, something you’d never do if you were guilty.

You threw the file back onto the desk. “You seriously think I did this?”

“Yes,” came the unanimous response.

Anger and heartbreak warred within you. “You’ve known me for years! You’re taking the word of some cadet over me?”

Gaz and Soap stepped forward, gripping your arms as you surged toward Price.

“Let me go!” you shouted, struggling against them. “You can’t seriously believe this!”

Price’s voice was ice. “Take her to the room.”

Panic clawed at you as they dragged you down the hall. “No! This is a mistake! I didn’t do it!”

They shoved you into the interrogation chamber. Before you could regain your footing, a fist connected with your face, sending you sprawling. You looked up to see Ghost towering over you, his eyes like flint.

“Couldn’t even wait to strap me down?” you spat, blood dripping from your lip.

“You’re a traitor,” he said flatly. “If it were up to me, you’d already be dead.”

The words shattered something inside you. He hauled you up by your hair, ignoring your struggles, and strapped you into the chair.

Price entered, knife glinting in his hand. “Last chance,” he growled.

“I didn’t do it,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face.

The blade plunged into your thigh, and you screamed.

The betrayal, more than the pain, was unbearable.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

MAN I STRUGGLED, i hope i did well....ty ly