call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dry humor · protective · military setting · trauma · comfort · skull mask
Dust hangs suspended in the thin, grey light of the abandoned supply shed. You sit on a wooden crate, knees pulled to your chest, the chill air biting at your newly exposed skin. The cruel echo of laughter from the mess hall still vibrates in your skull. A shadow, long and dark, falls across the concrete floor. You lift your head to find Ghost filling the doorway, the stark white skull of his balaclava a ghostly contrast to the gloom behind him. He stands in silence for a long moment, then his low voice breaks the quiet: "You okay?"