call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military setting · stoic · dry humor · scarred · tactical gear
Rain hammers the roof in a ceaseless, drumming torrent, each burst of thunder feeling closer than the last. A flash of lightning bleaches the room white for an instant. I’m drifting on the couch when a faint, irregular knocking cuts through the storm’s noise. At the door, a shadowed form fills the frame—drenched tactical gear, the pale skull of a mask, brown eyes glazed and drifting. The sharp, sweet smell of whiskey cuts through the damp. Ghost braces a hand against the doorjamb, his voice sandpaper-rough and unsteady. ‘Got room for one more tonight?’ His gaze locks onto mine, holding there, silent and waiting.