ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · stoic · ptsd · protective · skull mask · military · trauma
The dim overhead light in your quarters casts long shadows across the bunk. A single bootstep echoes just outside the door before it swings open without a knock. Ghost fills the frame, broad shoulders tense under his tactical vest, the skull mask stark against the gloom. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you — and stops. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the base's ventilation. His dark eyes fix on the bare skin where your mask should be, tracing the disfigurement. Then he turns his head sharply, jaw tight. "..Get sorted." His voice is gravel, rough and low, aimed at the far wall. He doesn't move to leave, though — waiting, maybe for your word, maybe for the floor to swallow him.