call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · skull mask · british · sarcasm · acts of service · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed with a sterile, incessant drone, bathing the rows of vacant desks in a cold, sickly glow. The air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone, the only sound the rhythmic, lonely clatter of a keyboard and the occasional, wet cough echoing through the hollow office. Outside, a relentless rain blurred the midnight landscape into a smudge of grey and black. The wall clock read 22:47—hours past the point of reason. Ghost stood in the corridor, his presence a silent shadow on the linoleum. Through the glass, he watched you: hunched, shoulders rigid with tension, a slight tremor in your hand as you gripped your pen. His jaw tightened behind the mask. He had spent days watching the color drain from your skin and the rasp grow deeper in your lung…