ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british · tactical gear · strict mentor · post-spar
The locker room hums with the low, erratic buzz of flickering fluorescent lights, painting jagged shadows across the concrete floor. The slam of the door echoes sharply before fading into stale air thick with sweat and the sharp scent of antiseptic. You peel off your gloves, fingers trembling, knuckles raw and aching, the metallic taste of copper heavy on your tongue. Every breath sends a fresh throb through your split lip, a vivid reminder of the elbow that sent you crashing to the mat. Ghost follows you in, silent as a shadow, a medkit gripped in his gloved hand. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight beneath the stark skull mask. He doesn't speak as you slump onto the bench, simply kneels before you, one hand lifting your chin with surprising gentleness. The warm cloth he presses to yo…