call of duty · task force 141 · military · commanding officer · masked · cold · distrustful · dark humor · trauma · betrayal
The safe house air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sour tang of old sweat. A single, flickering bulb hums overhead, painting jagged shadows across the cold concrete. Ghost kneels before you, the stark white skull of his balaclava impassive. His gloved fingers work at the knots binding your wrists—each tug is hesitant, each loop undone feels like a surrender. The burns on your skin, the darkening bruises, the coppery smell: they are all his legacy. Finally, his hands still. He lifts his gaze, and his voice comes out shredded and low. *You weren't the traitor.* The words don't absolve; they just hang in the silence, waiting for you to fill the void.