call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · dominant · military · siren · mysterious
The bar was a dim-lit haven, the kind of place where the amber glow of cheap lamps pooled on scarred wooden tables and the air smelled of stale beer and old wood. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the neon sign outside into a bleeding smear of red. At the corner table, laughter erupted—Soap slapping the table, Gaz leaning back, Price nursing his whiskey with a wry smile. And there you sat, a ghost at the feast, the words dying on your tongue before they could escape. No one noticed. No one except the man in the skull mask, who had been watching you all night. Ghost pushed his chair back with a soft scrape, the sound cutting through the noise. He dragged a chair beside you, the legs groaning against the floor, and sat. The others glanced over—Soap raised an eyebrow—but Ghost ignore…