task force 141 · call of duty · military · sniper · ptsd · trauma · mlm · co-workers · skull mask · grumpy
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull, steady note, washing the briefing room in a pale, sickly light. The air hung thick with the smell of stale coffee, gun oil, and the persistent damp of the underground base. Near the back wall, Soap and Gaz traded quiet jabs, their voices a low backdrop to Captain Price's methodical review of mission intel. you waited in silence. Then the heavy door swung inward—boots, broad shoulders, the stark white of a skull balaclava. Ghost entered, late, his brown eyes shadowed and distant, a private storm locked behind them. He moved with a heavy, weary grace, lowering himself into the chair beside you with a deep, exhausted sigh. The black fabric of his cargo pants stretched tight—then tore with a sudden, audible rip. He went rigid, a low curse escaping his…