call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · trauma · military · partner · masked · british · angst
The safehouse is a tomb of dim light and long shadows, the haze of cigarette smoke curling in the weak glow from a single bare bulb. Rain hammers a relentless beat against the grimy windows, a rhythm that syncs with the hollow ache settling deep in your ribs. Ghost stands motionless by the scarred wooden table, his broad silhouette a still, dark cutout against the wall. The air carries the sharp tang of gun oil and the stale bitterness of old coffee. His brown eyes, visible just above the skull-patterned mask, track your every movement as you methodically pack your gear into a duffel. He hasn't moved an inch, but his voice slices through the heavy quiet, low and gravel-rough. "Why are you punishing me for something I didn't do?" He doesn't step closer, but the full weight of his stare anc…