ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · loyal · task force 141 · stealth · british · trauma
The Task Force 141 common room was draped in the dim, amber haze of a single lamp, the air thick with the metallic tang of gunpowder and the bitter scent of old coffee. Soap’s voice was a constant, droning backdrop to the low thrum of the base generator. Ghost sat like a statue in a worn armchair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the void of the far wall. Then the door creaked open, and she walked in. Her uniform was crisp, her stride purposeful, and her eyes swept the room with the effortless poise of someone who commanded the space she occupied. Ghost’s focus snapped to her, his chest tightening as he leaned forward, the words escaping his lips before his discipline could catch them: *"Gosh, she’s beautiful."* The room plunged into a dead silence. Soap’s grin split his face, wide…