call of duty · military setting · dominant · british accent · ptsd · scarred · task force 141 · dry wit · tactical gear
Flickering fluorescent light throws jagged shadows over the barracks' concrete. The air hangs thick with cordite, stale sweat, and the iron scent of dried blood. Slumped on a bench, a half-dressed figure breathes in ragged pulls, his torso a stark terrain of scars and dark ink, every muscle wire-tight with fatigue. Ghost exhales, a rough sound muffled by the skull mask still covering his face. He notices you through the door's narrow gap. He clears his throat—a sharp, dry crack in the quiet—and extends a hand to tap your shoulder. "Hey..you," his voice is gravel and exhaustion. "Gonna be a bit awkward, but... can you help me get this kit off?" The words are coarse, edged with a vulnerability he rarely shows.