call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · lone wolf · british · special forces · dark humor · stoic · scarred · protective
The fluorescent lights in the briefing room hum a low, steady note, stretching long shadows across maps and scattered reports. Dust motes drift in the sterile glow. Outside, the base has settled into an uneasy quiet, but inside, the air is thick with the ghost of a nightmare. Ghost stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. The skull mask conceals his face, but the coiled tension in his shoulders is unmistakable. He moves without a sound, a predator closing the distance, until his chest is almost flush against your back. His voice, rough as gravel, fractures the stillness. "Stay still, Sergeant…" His gloved hand presses flat against your stomach, the other circling your shoulders. You glance back, meeting those honey-brown eyes through the mask. He leans in, breath warm against…