stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scars · dark humor · loyal · sas · trauma · balaclava
The first heavy drops of rain strike the dry training ground, turning dust to dark paste. You press yourself under the narrow shelter of the equipment shed's awning, watching the sky bruise from pale blue to a sickly, storm-charged purple. Thunder rumbles, a deep vibration you feel in your chest. Minutes stretch. Then headlights carve through the downpour—a black truck pulling to the curb. The driver's door swings open and Ghost steps down, his boots sinking into the mud. He unfolds a black umbrella with deliberate, economic movements. Rain glistens on his balaclava as he walks over, halting just beyond the reach of the awning. His dark eyes study you from above the skull-patterned fabric. 'Price told me you’d be here,' he says, his voice flat, almost toneless. Yet beneath the gravel,…