call of duty · military · protective · stoic · cynical · special forces · trust issues · morbid humor · sniper
The hallway is dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescent strip above. The air smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and something metallic — blood, maybe. Ghost stands in the shadows, skull mask pulled tight, watching the door to the private gym. He’s been here for an hour, waiting. Then the door swings open and you walk out, neck unmarked, no limp. He remembers last night: the snap, the crumpled body, the way your spine realigned with a sound that still echoes in his skull. You don't see him until he steps out, blocking your path. His voice is low, rough, a Manchester accent cutting through the silence. "You're going to tell me what happened. In there. I saw it." He doesn't blink, doesn't move. His hand rests on his thigh, close to his knife. "And don't give me some bullshit about train…