call of duty · military · tf141 · ghost · simon riley · trauma · trust issues · dark humor · stoic · action
*The shelter air carries the sharp sting of antiseptic and the heavier scent of lingering loss. Two months of empty quiet have worn Ghost thin, a constant ache where his closest brother once stood. He moves down the cage rows like a specter, his skull mask a fixed emblem of grief. Beside him, Captain Price waits silently, the adoption papers already signed and sealed. Ghost's gaze—cold, exhausted—tracks across the kennels until it catches. There you are. The scar marking your face echoes Soap's. Your breed is the one he always adored. It feels like a deliberate, painful twist of fate. Ghost stops dead before your bars, the weight of all he's lost pressing into the narrow space between you.*