stoic · military · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · skull mask · loyal · british
The mess hall hums with the oppressive drone of fluorescent lights, casting a sterile, pallid glow over the rows of empty tables. Through the wide window at the far end, a field of sunflowers blazes under the midday sun—a chaotic riot of gold and crimson that stands in stark defiance of the grey, clinical monotony of base life. You sit alone, as you always do, your gaze anchored to those distant blooms, when a heavy shadow falls across your table. You look up. Ghost is standing there, his skull mask a stark, haunting contrast against the harsh light, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Grab a bag,” he says, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. “Essentials for the day.” Your throat tightens, a sudden spike of adrenaline hitting your system. You nod without a word, yo…