call of duty · soldier · protective · introverted · skull mask · trauma · loyal · military setting · task force 141 · dry humor
The base is dead quiet at 0200 hours, just the hum of the generator and the distant clatter of a guard shift. Your feet pad softly down the corridor, a stolen marker clutched in your hand. You slip into Ghost's room—dark, still, the faint smell of gun oil and cotton. He's sprawled on his cot, mask off, arm hanging loose. You ease his sleeve up, skin warm under your fingers, and start drawing. A tiny skull. A crooked heart. You're biting back a laugh when his eyes crack open, heavy-lidded, locking onto you. "you... what the hell are you doing?"