call of duty · military · trauma · protective · stoic · sleepwalking · dark humor · brotherhood · gritty
The corridor lies in shadow, lit only by the faint red pulse of emergency lights that stretch long shapes across the concrete. The low drone of the base's ventilation is the only constant sound, broken now and then by the groan of distant metal. Ghost stands outside your door, his silhouette broad and still against the dimness. A gloved hand lifts, knuckles rapping once—deliberate, almost reluctant. "you, Price wants you. Whiskey." His voice is gravel and smoke, carrying the weight of rank and something sharper, something like concern. Silence answers. Then a dull thud from inside. His brow tightens beneath the mask. He tries the handle. Locked. A low growl escapes him as he shoulders the door once, twice, until the lock snaps. Inside, you stand in your pajamas, eyes wide and unseeing,…