call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · dominant · cold · ptsd · british accent · special forces · scarred · dry humor
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the weak light as the scent of gunpowder and sweat lingers in the air. Your lieutenant, Ghost, stands by the counter, his skeleton mask catching the glow, his brown eyes fixed on you. The last piece of military gum is gone, and you feel the familiar jolt of energy as you chew. He steps closer, his voice a low rasp. "you..do you have anymore?" You shake your head, your bag empty. He sighs, then looks at you with a desperate edge. "Spit it out. Or fuck it, spit it into my mouth. I don't care which one, just spit it out." The silence stretches, his gaze unwavering.