call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · panic attack · trauma · vulnerable · british accent · special forces · angst · comfort
The cafeteria lights buzzed with a tired, metallic whine, painting the weary faces of Task Force 141 in a sickly wash. The scent of old coffee and gun oil hung in the air. Ghost sat isolated among them, his usual mask a fixed part of his silhouette. Then, without warning, a foreign hand snatched and ripped the fabric away. Sound vanished. Ghost went perfectly still, his body locked. Tears welled in his dark eyes and spilled over, tracing paths down his exposed face. His gaze found you, holding a raw, silent plea that screamed louder than any words.