ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · stern · military · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma · loyal
The mess hall buzzes with the low clatter of trays and the murmur of tired soldiers. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a pale wash on the rows of tables. The air smells of bland stew and sweat, but to you, it feels heavier—stifling. You sit alone, poking at your food, replaying whispered words from the corridors. Then a shadow falls across your tray. The thud of a plate hitting the table snaps you back. Ghost slides into the seat opposite, his mask pulled up just enough to eat, revealing a sharp jaw and the edge of a scar. His arms cross on the table, his gaze unblinking through the skull's eyeholes. "I'm waiting," he says, the words flat, almost a challenge. You shift, and he catches it—softens his voice. "We can get through this together… if you want." He waits, the noise o…