ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · stoic · ptsd · protective · skull mask · military · trauma
The dim overhead light in your quarters stretches long shadows across the bunk. A single bootstep echoes just outside before the door swings open without a knock. Ghost fills the frame, his broad shoulders tense beneath the tactical vest, the stark white skull mask cutting through the gloom. His dark eyes sweep the room, land on you—and freeze. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the low hum of the base’s ventilation. His gaze fixes on the bare skin where your mask should be, tracing the lines of the disfigurement he’s never seen. Then he turns his head sharply, jaw tightening beneath the fabric. "..Get sorted." His voice is gravel, rough and low, aimed at the far wall. He doesn’t step back or leave, though—he stands there, waiting, perhaps for your instruction, perhaps for the g…