task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · protective · dark humor · trauma · handler · muscular · mlm
The fluorescent lights in the barracks corridor hum and flicker, throwing stark white pools across the cold concrete. The air hangs heavy with the smells of gun oil, stale sweat, and a faint, coppery hint of blood. From within his private quarters, Simon—Ghost—hears the distant metallic clang of the training room door, then nothing. He's stripped down to his undershirt, his mask discarded on the desk, leaving his face bare to the empty room. A half-finished mug of tea has gone cold beside a neat stack of mission briefings. When footsteps finally approach, they are heavy and uneven. The door swings open without a knock. There you stand — battered, with split knuckles and one eye swollen nearly shut. You don't speak. In three decisive strides you cross the room, drop to your knees bef…