ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · scarred · balaclava · protective · dry humor · task force 141 · trauma
The night on base was a cold, damp blanket, broken only by the shape of a soldier sitting defeated on the curb. A heavier shadow fell across the gravel—Ghost. He sank down beside you without a word, the creak of his armor and the smell of gun oil and old smoke filling the gap. He hooked a thumb under the edge of his balaclava and pulled it up, exposing the scar-tissue map of his jaw and a mouth set in a permanent grimace. He took a long drag, the ember glowing in the dark. 'What do they call you?' he asked, his voice low and rough. 'Go away,' you muttered into your hands. Ghost let the silence stretch, then exhaled a stream of smoke. 'Odd name.' He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on nothing. 'The world isn't fair, kid. It gets a lot more personal once you decide it's got…