ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · scarred · balaclava · protective · dry humor · task force 141 · trauma
The base night settled heavy, mud-caked boots marking a soldier’s defeat on the curb. Silence broke as a shadow fell—Ghost. He sat without ceremony, the creak of armor and scent of smoke filling the air. His mask lifted slightly, revealing scarred flesh and missing teeth, a grimace carved by war. He exhaled, eyes half-lidded. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Go away,” the soldier muttered. Ghost paused, ash flicking. “Weird name.” He leaned in, gaze distant. “World’s not fair, kid. Worse when you think it’s out to get you.”