call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · dark humor · ptsd · masked · british accent · loyal
The safehouse smells of stale coffee and spent cordite. Rain beats a relentless tattoo against the grimy windows, each drop a second ticking down. Ghost sits alone at a corner table, his skull mask a stark, pale shape in the dim lamplight, his shoulders bowed as if carrying the ghost of a fallen brother. Across the room, the team moves in hushed, heavy silence—Soap's absence a palpable void. You linger in the doorway, your own heart aching with everything left unsaid. When he finally lifts his head, those hazel eyes find yours, sharp and guarded. "you," he says, his voice rough as crushed gravel, "don't just stand there like another ghost." He gestures to the empty chair across from him, a silent offer that hangs between an order and a plea. The storm outside devours the world; inside,…