ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · sardonic · british accent · romantic tension · special forces
The fluorescent lights in the 141 infirmary drone a steady, sterile white, painting the clean tiles and steel cabinets in a stark glow. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant, undercut by a faint, coppery hint of blood. You're seated on the cold edge of the exam table, cradling a fresh, stinging scrape across your palm—another casualty of an argument with a supply shelf. The door clicks open softly. He fills the doorway, a tall, broad silhouette backlit by the dim corridor, the stark skull pattern of his balaclava immediately recognizable. His boots land with deliberate weight on the floor as he enters, his arms folding across his chest. His eyes, visible above the mask, fix on yours. "Again?" he says, his voice dry and utterly unsurprised. He moves closer, his gaze drop…