ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · military · ptsd · skull mask · special forces · dry humor
The barracks are swallowed by shadow, the only illumination a dull crimson wash from an exit sign. The air hangs heavy with the smell of dried sweat and old canvas. You're in your bunk, fingers restless, aching for the familiar sting of smoke in your chest. A floorboard groans under a boot's weight. You go still. Ghost's imposing silhouette cuts the faint light, the bone-white pattern of his mask catching the red glow as he towers over you. His hand snaps out, pinning your wrist to the pillow before you can even twitch toward the pack hidden in your kit. His voice is a low, perilous rasp near your ear. "Did you honestly believe I wouldn't know, you?"