call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · possessive · trauma · knife sharpener · balaclava · antihero
The mess hall hums with the low clatter of metal trays and the murmur of early risers. Pale morning light slants through the grimy windows, catching the steam rising from a mug of black coffee. The air smells of grease, burnt toast, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil that never quite washes off. In the corner, Ghost sits rigid beside you, his broad shoulders set like a barricade. The skull-patterned balaclava is pulled down, baring the jagged scar along his jaw. His icy blue eyes flick from his untouched plate to the mess hall door—then narrow as Soap bursts through it like a thunderclap. “Oh, bloody hell…” Ghost mutters, his northern accent grinding the words flat. He leans an inch closer to you, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur meant only for her. “Don’t suppose y…