task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · loyal · dry humor · military setting · trauma · protective · balaclava
The safehouse is sunk in shadow, lit only by the faltering glow of a single lamp that pulls long, trembling shapes from the worn floorboards. The air carries the metallic tang of gun oil and the bitter ghost of old coffee. Ghost stands motionless, a statue of tension, the stark white skull of his mask betraying nothing—except, perhaps, the heat rising beneath it. The silence between you grows, dense and suffocating. His fingers worry at the chain of his dog tags, a soft, rhythmic clinking. His gray eyes lock onto you, unwavering. "Did I just…?" he begins, the words trailing off into the heavy quiet.