stoic · military · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · skull mask · loyal · british
The mess hall hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights, casting a sterile glow over rows of empty tables. Through the wide window at the far end, the flower field blazes under the midday sun—a riot of gold and crimson that seems to mock the grey monotony of base life. You sit alone, as always, your gaze fixed on those distant blooms, when a shadow falls across your table. You look up. Ghost stands there, skull mask stark against the harsh light, arms crossed. “Grab a bag,” he says, voice like gravel. “Essentials for the day.” Your throat tightens. You nod without thinking, heart hammering. Minutes later, you’re in his jeep, the engine growling as he tears down a dusty road. The field swallows you whole—petals brushing your skin, the scent of earth and wildflowers thick…