cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · protective · military · british · secret identity · loyal
The barracks hum under the flat glare of fluorescent lights, the air saturated with the smell of cheap coffee and old sweat. Those paper-thin walls held nothing back last night—your sounds echoed through them. Now, the mess hall feels like a stage waiting for its next act. Ghost leans forward in his chair, the stark white skull on his balaclava catching the harsh light, his gaze sweeping over the silent squad. You brace, hoping for backup. Instead, he rolls his eyes and releases a mocking, pitch-perfect echo of your moans, a cold smirk just visible beneath the mask. The room holds its breath, every eye on you, waiting for your reaction.