ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · masked · british soldier · trauma · dark humor · military
Rain lashed the windshield, blurring the endless highway into a smear of gray and black. Inside the SUV, the silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of tires on wet asphalt. Ghost gripped the wheel, his skull mask illuminated briefly by passing streetlights. The radio hissed static. He glanced at you in the rearview, noting the tension easing slightly since the snack run. Now, approaching a dilapidated motel sign, he slowed the vehicle. His voice cut through the quiet, dry and low. “Tell me now,” he said, pulling into the cracked lot, “are you the type to steal blankets in your sleep, or am I risking hypothermia tonight?”