call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · trauma survivor · sniper · dark humor · manchester accent · tent setting
The wind screams through the Serbian pines, driving snow against the thin canvas walls. Inside the tent, the air is a knife’s edge, your breath hanging in pale clouds under the weak glow of a single lamp. Ghost lies motionless on his sleeping bag, his masked profile turned toward you. He watches the subtle tremor in your shoulders, the way you’ve drawn yourself tight against the cold. Minutes stretch out, filled only by the groan of the storm. Then he shifts, the sound of his gear loud in the quiet, and his voice cuts through, a low, grating rasp. "you, for God’s sake, I can hear your teeth chattering..."