ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · loyal · british · military · skull mask · trauma
The mess hall glows under dim fluorescent lights, the air thick with the sound of trays and low voices. You're slumped at a table, the day's brutal training a deep ache in your bones, your head heavy on your folded arms. Price and Ghost are speaking nearby in low tones. Gaz and Soap left for pizza. A long shadow falls over you. "You holding up, kid?" Ghost asks, his voice a low rumble, his gaze steady on you through the eyeholes of his skull mask.