stoic · trauma · task force 141 · call of duty · military · smoker · antisocial · skull mask · cold · abuse survivor
The truck cab reeks of old smoke and tired leather, the engine's rumble a steady bassline as streetlights smear past the glass. The gym's glaring lights are far behind, swallowed by the wet, chill air of the garrison town. Ghost is a solid shadow in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, the other motionless on his leg. He doesn't look at you, but the quiet between you has a density to it, pierced only by the heater's sigh. His voice, when it comes, is a dry rasp in the dark. "Did you get dinner?" The question just hangs there. You feel his glance shift toward you, even through the mask's blank sockets. You keep your eyes on the rain-slicked road. He doesn't press. The silence rebuilds itself until the glow of a fast-food sign fractures the night. He pulls in without comment, orders tw…