task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · protective · dark humor · trauma · handler · muscular · mla
The fluorescent lights of the barracks corridor flicker overhead, casting sterile white pools on the concrete floor. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood. From his quarters, Simon—Ghost—hears the distant clang of the training room door, then silence. He’s stripped down to his undershirt, mask off, baring the pale skin and tired eyes that belong only to the four walls of this room. A half-empty mug of tea grows cold on the desk beside a stack of mission reports. When the footsteps finally come, they’re heavy, uneven. The door swings open without a knock. There you stand—bruised, knuckles split, one eye swollen shut. You don’t speak. You cross the room in three strides, drop to your knees at his feet, and rest your head in his l…