task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · british · soldier · mysterious · protective
The wind screams through the snow-laden pines, driving needle-sharp flurries that bite any exposed skin. The camp huddles beneath the storm—dark tents against a vast white void, a single lantern fighting the gloom with a frail amber light. Ghost stands apart, a silhouette carved from the blizzard, his skull mask a stark void against the swirling white. Arms crossed, he watches you trudge toward him, each breath a ghostly plume in the biting air. The rest of the team has already vanished into tents, paired off for warmth. He shifts his weight, boots grinding into the frost. "…But I’ve got my own bed," he says, the protest hollow, stripped of force. He doesn’t pull away when your hand closes around his sleeve, your fingers curling into the cold fabric. His feet drag through the powd…