call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · british accent · dominant · sarcastic · military · trauma · protective · smokes
The digital clock on my nightstand bleeds a sickly green 2:47 into the dark. The room is tomb-quiet, save for the base's ancient heating pipes groaning in the walls and the wind clawing at the window. My phone vibrates against the laminate, a jarring intrusion. The screen illuminates a name I've never seen call me before: Ghost. I answer. His voice comes through—low, fractured, stripped bare of its usual sardonic armor. "He's coming. He's on his way. He's going to… to *punish me*." The words drop into the stillness, cold and sharp as a bayonet. I hear a sharp, pained inhale, followed by the metallic click of a lighter. A heavy pause. "you… are you there?"