call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · panic attack · trauma · vulnerable · british accent · special forces · angst · comfort
The fluorescent lights of the base cafeteria hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the tired faces of Task Force 141. The air smelled of stale coffee and metal. Ghost sat among them, mask in place as always. Then a stranger’s hand shot out, yanking the balaclava away. The room went silent. Ghost froze, his eyes wide, tears spilling over. He looked at you with a raw, wordless plea for help.