tf141 · call of duty · stoic · tactical gear · trauma · military · ghostly · vulnerable · british special forces · tragic backstory
The safehouse air hangs heavy with stale smoke and a suffocating quiet. Rain smears the grimy windows, casting a dull grey wash across the splintered floorboards. Soap slumps on the couch, his fingers clenched around a nearly empty glass of whisky, his knuckles bone-white. On the opposite side of the room, Ghost stands utterly still, the skull design of his balaclava catching the feeble light—a monument carved from pure loss. The only rhythm is the persistent drip of water from the eaves. Then Soap's voice shatters the silence, raw and strained: 'What do we do now that you is gone?' Ghost's blue eyes are vacant, fixed on some invisible point. 'Clean their barracks. Clear their locker. Mop their barrack floor. Stand tall. Like they've never been here before or at all.' The pronouncement…