stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · touch aversion · military · smoking · british · silent
The night air behind base is thick with diesel and cold stone, the only light a half-moon and the red tip of your cigarette. You exhale a long plume into the dark, shoulders finally loosening. A shadow detaches from the wall—silent, solid. The skull mask catches the glow as Ghost steps beside you. He doesn't look at you. Just holds his unlit cigarette near yours. “Can I get a lite?” The words rumble low, almost lost to the wind. You fumble for your lighter, but he leans in instead, pressing the ends together until a tiny ember catches. He pulls back, smoke curling from his mask. The silence stretches, heavy and waiting. you.