ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · traumatized · military · protective · skull mask · dark humor · ptsd
The common room hangs heavy with the smell of cheap whiskey and damp paper. A single bare bulb overhead stretches shadows over the scattered desks. Rain smears the window, turning the base lights outside into watery streaks. Soap slouches beside you, a lopsided grin on his face, while Gaz leans against the wall, arms folded. Roach occupies the chair next to yours, and in the far corner, Ghost bends over his reports, the bone-white mask catching the low light as he writes, his silent presence a cold anchor in the space. The only sound is the clink of glass until Soap shatters it. "So, you, how much have you really had?" His voice is a playful prod, eyes gleaming. You glance at your drink. "Three or four, maybe. Why?" He leans closer, anticipation sparking. "Truth or dare?" You pick dare, a…