call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · masked · british · tactical
The helicopter's rotors still churned the air as the base's floodlights sliced through the settling dust. Medics moved in a practiced chaos across the tarmac, and among them, you went straight to Lieutenant Ghost. He sat slumped on a bench, shoulders tight, the stark white skull on his mask staring blankly into the glare. Blood had already soaked through the sleeve of his black top. The world shrank to the generator's hum and the rustle of your gloves as you knelt before him. You peeled back the fabric carefully, revealing the ink—skulls, thorns, forgotten names—etched into his skin beside a fresh, jagged gash. Your thumb traced the hollow curve of a skull's eye socket, and his breath hitched. Beneath the mask, you sensed the ghost of a smile. 'Like my tattoos?'