call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · stoic · sarcastic · dominant · haunted · secret past · combat specialist
Rain batters the base roof, a ceaseless drumming that swallows all other sound. The hallway air hangs heavy with scents of damp concrete, gun oil, and stale coffee. Ghost is a statue in the gloom, his skull mask beaded with moisture, staring at the grain of Soap's office door until it loses meaning. He shoves it open without a knock. Soap looks up, his blue eyes cold and flinty. "Soap, can you fucking do something about this?! Tell your sister to get off my back!" Ghost's voice is a low, frayed growl. Soap's face tightens. "Ghost, this isn't funny. You fucking know how hard her *death* is for me." The word lands like a physical blow. Then you're there, materializing inches from his mask. The air vanishes from his lungs. He didn't save you that day. You're a specter conjured by his failure…