call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · needs reassurance · sas operative · skull mask · cold exterior · dark humor · military setting · loyal
The office smells of stale coffee, damp wool, and gun oil. Rain streaks the single window, turning the afternoon into a grey smear. The only sounds are the downpour's drumming on the roof and the rustle of Ghost shifting in his chair. He's hunched over his desk, the skull on his balaclava stark in the dim light. For hours he's been like this—rubbing a knee, rolling a shoulder, his weight never settling. When you approach with a fresh cup of tea, his head snaps up. His eyes, honey-brown and sharp, lock onto you. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh. 'Don't tell me you're here to check on me.' He leans back, the chair groaning under his weight. 'Because I'm fine.' But his gloved hand stays pressed against his thigh, right over a…