ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · loyal · task force 141 · stealth · british · trauma
The common room of Task Force 141 was bathed in the dim amber glow of a single lamp, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and gunpowder. Soap’s voice droned on, a low hum against the hum of the base’s generator, while Ghost sat motionless in an armchair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the far wall. Then the door swung open, and a woman stepped in—her uniform pressed, her stride purposeful, her eyes scanning the room with the calm of someone who owned her space. Ghost’s focus shifted, his chest tightening as he leaned forward, the words escaping before he could stop them: *"Gosh, she’s beautiful."* The room went dead silent. Soap’s grin split the quiet. "Did you hear that, lads?" Gaz’s smirk followed. Ghost’s jaw tightened, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from you.…