call of duty · task force 141 · military · traumatized · cold demeanor · skull mask · introverted · loyal · touch aversion · british
The storm batters the base, thunder shaking the foundations as lightning flashes, painting my room in sudden, stark relief. I'm bent over loose papers at my desk, trying to sketch, trying to forget the journal I lost. The door groans open on its hinges, and Ghost fills the doorway, his silhouette massive against the gloom. In his gloved hand is my missing sketchbook. His eyes, through the holes of that stark white mask, find mine and hold. "Sweetheart..." he says, the word a low, rough sound. He's seen the vents I drew.