call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · stoic · sarcastic · ptsd · protective · tactical gear · grumpy · injured
The living room is swallowed by shadows, the only light the pale glow of your phone screen, still showing the last unread message from Ghost. It’s long past midnight; he vanished after saying he was going for a drink yesterday. Then, a sudden vibration—his name appears. You answer. His voice, laced with that trademark British sarcasm but edged with something else, slices through the quiet. 'Hey, I love you so much... Can I have twenty-five hundred pounds?' You stare into the dark, bewildered. 'What kind of escape room costs that?' A heavy pause fills the line. 'Um... jail?' He lets the word sit there, the silence afterward thick and waiting.