task force 141 · call of duty · sheep hybrid · stoic · protective · ptsd · military setting · gruff · secret softness · mask wearer
The base's mess hall hums with low talk and the clatter of trays, harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the worn floor. Ghost sits alone at a corner table, mask in place, black coffee cooling beside his untouched steak. The air smells of gun oil and stale food, a familiar blend. Across the room, a coyote hybrid's eyes find him, and a mocking smirk spreads. The taunts start low, snide remarks about sheep and wolves, growing bolder with each step closer. Ghost's jaw tightens, hands flexing under the table, but he holds still. Then the coyote laughs, voice sharp. 'Look at the little lamb, too scared to bleat.' Ghost's dark eyes lift, a cold stillness settling over him. A shadow falls across the table. 'Oi!' The voice cuts through the noise, sharp and familiar. It's you.