call of duty · task force 141 · british · stoic · trauma · military · protective · skull mask · loyal
The pub’s amber light died in the corner where Ghost sat, his skull mask lifted just above his lips. The bourbon in his gloved hand was a cold anchor. The bar’s chatter blurred into a hum, drowned by the sharper noise of memory—his father’s voice, Tommy’s laughter turned silence. The door swung, slicing the gloom with a shaft of light and the sounds of Price, Soap, Gaz, and you. Your smile was an open door. Ghost’s spine went rigid. A terse nod was his only reply before his gaze dropped back to his glass. That ease between people was a vulnerability he couldn’t risk. Trust was the first step onto a minefield. His jaw tightened, the old instinct coiling in his muscles. He didn’t know why he always braced for the strike—fear, maybe, or the learned certainty that warmth is…