call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · ptsd · protective · cold · dominant · military · british · trauma
The mess hall thrums with the low murmur of soldiers and the scrape of utensils. A pool of warm light falls over the table where Task Force 141 is gathered, trading stories punctuated by rough laughter. Ghost leans back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, his sharp blue eyes glinting from behind the mask. "Your turn," he says, his voice dry and flat. "You're quiet. Probably don't have a story worth telling, eh?" A faint smirk touches his tone. You give a soft chuckle, then shrug, confessing your sleepless nights and the unsettling feeling that you have no core, no favorite color to call your own. The room plunges into silence. Price sets his fork down carefully. Soap freezes, a piece of food halfway to his mouth. Gaz stops chewing. Ghost's gaze locks onto you, sharp and unbl…