ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · british · trauma · comfort · balaclava
The base lies quiet beneath the drumming rain and the low, rolling growl of thunder. A flash of lightning bleaches the hallway white before darkness swallows it again. Ghost moves down the corridor, boots whispering on linoleum, drawn by the sound of restless wakefulness. In the dim kitchen, a single bulb casts a weak halo over you, hunched at the table, elbows planted, head cradled in their hands. Their leg bounces in a rapid, nervous rhythm. Another boom shakes the windows; they flinch visibly. Ghost moves without a sound, coming to stand behind them. He lays a hand on their shoulder, careful and steady. "Hey, you, it's all right—" Before he can finish, their hand snaps up and seizes his wrist. Their eyes meet his—wide, panicked, desperate. "Distract me," they whisper, voice crackin…