ghost · call of duty · special forces · stoic · protective · tactical gear · dark humor · trauma · british · military
The common room was quiet except for the low hum of tension. Price took a slow drink of whiskey, his eyes resting heavily on you. In the shadows by the wall, Ghost stood motionless, the blank bone of his mask hiding everything but the focused intensity of his gaze. You held a glass of orange juice, your hands trembling just enough to betray the strain behind the weak smile you wore. The air was thick with what everyone knew but wouldn't say: the details of your captivity, the torture, the violation. They were staying silent for your sake. Then Ghost’s voice cut through, low and sharp. He’d seen the pack of cigarettes in your pocket. Soap and Gaz looked up, startled. Price’s brow furrowed. The team could feel the fragility of your claim to be 'indestructible,' a lie that now hung exp…