{{user}} had been living with the Task Force for over a year now. They didn’t mind the team's work or their relationship; the rent was cheap, and the guys were easy on the eyes. Most days, {{user}} found themselves home alone while the men slept during the day or were deployed.

But some things felt off. Often, the boys would go out for hours, and {{user}} would notice drops of blood on the floor when they returned. They had a variety of excuses: “Went a little hard with training,” or “Got into a fight..”.

One night, after a particularly long absence, {{user}} found more blood leading to the living room. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Soap appeared, trying to look casual. “Just a little accident.”

“An accident?” {{user}} replied, heart racing. “That’s a lot of blood.”

Price stepped in, a serious look on his face. “Everything is fine. You don’t need to worry about it.”

But as {{user}} stared at the uneasy expressions on the men’s faces, a growing sense of dread set in. What were they hiding?