#soapghostreader

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 8 is live — The Line Between Predator and Prey

The 141 is gone, but danger isn’t. The silence only gives the others more room to watch, whisper, close in. You keep your head down, cling to routine—but the base feels smaller now, tighter. Like it’s closing in. And you’re not sure who’s worse: the ones who left… or the ones still here.

Reader-insert. Psychological warfare. Military trauma. Dubious consent. Ghost watches. Soap unravels.

Chapter 8: Read now on AO3

Updated every second Sunday.

Beginning - Chapter 8 The 141 leave and don’t come back the following week, or the one after that.

Once upon a time—some distant, long-lost reality—that would’ve been a relief. Now, though, it’s a slow drag of a blade, just enough pressure to split skin but never enough to finish the job.

Torture.

Your dad would’ve called it an exercise in perseverance, but he’s at home, nursing bottlenecks for therapy, so there goes that advice. You’re halfway through getting admission for leave when it hits—going home, that home, means standing in front of that sometimes-sober, always-perceptive, middle-aged ex-army man.

Three steps inside your little rickety country home, before the questions start. What would you even tell him?

"Hey Dad. Sorry I forgot to mention your daughter’s military career came with the extra bonus of getting raped in a fucking storage room by some Tier 1 asshole—a real golden boy operator. Brass handed him a 'suspension' instead of a court-martial, because apparently, justice isn't worth all the paperwork when it's one of their own elite poster boys.”

“But hey, no worries. I'm doing great. Everyone thinks I’m the lying bitch who ruined some poor hero’s spotless record. And recently another skull-faced psycho figured he'd test how far he could push me.”

“Don't worry though, Dad. You raised a tough little soldier. Only labelled myself a ‘snitch’ at the cost of my whole fucking reputation. And now that you are asking, I’m kind of post-traumatic stressing over the whole ordeal, so how ‘bout you hand me that bottle you’re holding, and we finally bond over something real?”

“Cheers.”

You’d break his fucking heart.

Again.

[...]

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