call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · skull mask · british · sarcasm · acts of service · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed their low, constant drone, casting a sterile glow over the rows of empty desks. The air smelled of stale coffee and printer toner, the only sounds the distant clatter of a keyboard and the occasional cough echoing from the far office. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the dark outside into a watercolor smear. Inside, the clock on the wall read 22:47 — long past when anyone sensible had gone home. Ghost stood in the corridor, his boots silent on the linoleum. He could see you through the glass, hunched over paperwork, shoulders tight, a tremor in your hand as you reached for a pen. His jaw clenched beneath the skull mask. He'd watched you push yourself for days, watched the color drain from your face, heard the rasp in your breath. Enough. He p…