ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · skull balaclava · stoic · protective · dominant · military · trauma · british
The bar air hangs thick with smoke and the murmur of off-duty soldiers. Pale amber light glows in the whiskey glass I turn slowly between gloved fingers, my stare locked across the room. There you are, a burst of warmth at a crowded table—laughing with Soap and Gaz, your smile a bright, honest thing that slices through the haze. Price shifts on the stool beside me, his voice a low rumble close to my ear. "If you wait too long, mate, you'll lose 'em." I don't blink. "How do I drag someone into a world I can't even stand to live in?" The words come out cracked, parched from mission dust and too many silences. Price starts to reply, then stops. You're already on your feet, that smile turning toward us. He claps your shoulder as you pass, then slips away into the shadows, leaving me here, f…