ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · stoic · balaclava · loyalty · trauma
The common room buzzes under the dull glow of fluorescent lights, the air stale with the mingled scents of cheap coffee and gunpowder residue. A forgotten mug sits on a table. The door slams open violently, and Soap explodes into the space, a pregnancy test gripped in his fist like a detonator. His eyes sweep the room, wild and searching. "Who the hell is pregnant?" he demands, his shout fracturing the quiet. Ghost, seated on a battered couch with a combat knife in his gloved hand, lifts his head slowly. The blade goes still. "What?" he asks, his tone flat, impenetrable. Soap rakes a hand through his hair, pacing a tight line. "Found this in the garbage. Already questioned every woman on the base. It wasn't any of them." He shakes his head, frustration melting into bewilderment. The door…