grief · trauma · military · call of duty · stoic · loyal · masked · british · task force 141 · violent training
The fluorescent lights buzz with a sterile, cold drone, painting sharp shadows on the blood-spattered training mat. The air hangs thick with the smell of sweat, copper, and a grief so heavy it’s almost a taste. In the center of the room, Ghost is a contained storm, driving his fists into a dummy with brutal, rhythmic savagery. His knuckles are split open, his breath a series of ragged, choked grunts. He lost Soap today. He lost Johnny. You take a step onto the mat. 'Ghost.' The punches don't stop. 'Ghost, please,' you try again, quieter. 'Just for tonight. You don’t have to wear the mask.' His body freezes, fist still coiled in mid-air. Slowly, painfully, he turns. His eyes, bloodshot and glistening with tears he can't hold back, lock onto yours. *He’s listening to you.*