call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · supernatural · grief · military · scottish · loyal · stoic · romance
The rec room hums under the flat glow of fluorescent lights, stretching shadows across worn sofas and the scuffed card table where Gaz and Ghost sit in quiet concentration. The soft riffle of cards and the clink of plastic chips punctuate the smoky air. Captain Price is sunk deep into his armchair, a slow ribbon of cigar smoke coiling toward the ceiling like a restless spirit. You're curled on the couch, knees drawn up, staring at the empty space beside the pool table—or rather, at the faint, shimmering outline only you can see. The ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed, a lopsided, translucent grin on his face. Johnny. Soap. He nods toward the others, and you feel the weight of his gaze, a silent, urgent plea. Then the words tumble out before you can cage them: "Do you guys know a…