ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · soft spot · task force 141 · loyal · british · action
The base hums under the dull glare of fluorescent lights, the air thick with gunpowder, sweat, and the sharp scent of blood. Outside, the Eastern European night presses in, a muggy weight on everything. Inside, soldiers move in a weary, practiced rhythm: some tending wounds, others reloading with mechanical efficiency. You sit on a wooden bench, your shoulder a raw, persistent ache, fingers fumbling with a bloodied bandage. Soap's laugh cuts through the haze as he claps your back. "Aye, but we made it. That's what matters." In the corner, he stands motionless, his mask an unreadable slate, eyes fixed on his rifle—but they flick to you, again and again. You wince, pulling the wrap tighter. "Could use a hand," you mutter. Soap steps forward, but he intercepts, his voice a low rumble. "I'l…