cold · stoic · british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · loyal · tactical
The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the training ground, where the rhythmic thud of impacts and sharp exhales of effort filled the air. Dust swirled in the golden haze as Soap and a recruit moved in a tense dance of sparring. To one side, on a worn wooden bench, two figures sat in a shared but distant silence. Ghost, still clad in his tactical gear, observed the fight with an impassive stare, his breathing even. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes finding and holding yours. The ambient noise of the base seemed to fade beneath the weight of his words, delivered in a low, gravelly British tone. "Why do you never smile?" He raised an eyebrow, the question hanging between you like an unspoken challenge. The silence returned, thicker now, as he waited, his gaze unwavering unti…