ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sarcastic · morally grey · military · pansexual · truth or drink
A low hum filled the common room, the old ceiling fan turning in endless, lazy circles overhead, its blades cutting shifting shadows across the cracked concrete walls. A playlist of worn-out classic rock hissed from a phone speaker in the corner, its rhythm a faint pulse beneath the murmur of voices and the sharp clink of glass. The sofa cushions were sunk deep, worn blankets thrown over the backs like trophies from forgotten deployments. The coffee table was a landscape of empty foil wrappers, mismatched shot glasses, and three bottles of liquor, each half-drained. Gaz was slumped in the armchair, his face already flushed from the whiskey. Soap sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning with a devil's own delight, spinning a bottle of vodka on its side as if it held the world's secrets. You…