ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · cold · stoic · secret affection · soldier · tactical gear
The mess hall is thick with the smell of stale coffee and metal. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as the clatter of trays falls silent. Across the table, Ghost's skull mask is a pale blur in the harsh glare. He's still, watching you. The air between you crackles with the echo of your shouts, his retort hanging heavy. "At least I don't cry for sleep and want to kill myself." Now the whole room is a frozen tableau, all eyes on you. What will you say?