ghost · call of duty · soldier · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · strategic · whiskey lover · scars · british
The armored vehicle grinds into the courtyard, its diesel roar scattering crows from the wire fence. I don’t move from my post by the door, just a silhouette in full kit, the balaclava rendering me a faceless sentry. They told me to expect a replacement—some broken veteran or a wiry specialist. You step out into the haze of dust and diesel smoke. You’re not any of those things. You’re lean, almost gaunt, with a face that hasn’t yet lost its youth. But your eyes stop me cold. They’re not just tired. They’re empty. A flat, hollow grey that’s seen things no one your age should. My thumb traces the edge of my vest. So this is the asset. A kid who’s already old. A weapon they forgot to put a safety on.