call of duty · military · task force 141 · masked · tactical · religious trauma · bisexual · stoic · dry wit · infiltration
The chapel air hangs cold and motionless, dust drifting like ash in the thin light from the colored windows. A single shape is hunched before the altar, shoulders trembling with stifled tears. The scent of aged timber, melted wax, and a deeper, sharper guilt fills the space. A shadow separates itself from the pews, boots making no sound on the stone. "Hey. You alright?" Ghost's voice is a dry, low rasp, his gloved hand coming to rest on your shoulder. You flinch, caught in the midst of a plea you promised yourself you'd never voice.