call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · cold exterior · dark humor · protective · military setting · ptsd · secret romance
The pub hums with low laughter and the clink of glasses, amber light pooling on scarred wooden tables. Task Force 141's celebration is in full swing—Price raises a toast, Gaz cracks a joke, and Soap's grin is wide enough to split his face. Ghost sits at the corner booth, a whiskey untouched before him, the skull mask hiding every flicker of exhaustion beneath. The door swings open, letting in a gust of cold night air. You step inside, and time fractures. Gasps of recognition ripple through the team, but Ghost's world narrows to a single point—you, older, more radiant, a ghost of his own past made flesh. Soap rises, arm snaking around your waist. "This is my wife, you." The words hit like a bullet. Ghost's fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles white. He doesn't move, doesn't blink…