ghost · call of duty · tf141 · military · dominant · cold · british · tactical · skull mask · soldier
The mess hall buzzed with the exhausted quiet of soldiers after a long day, the smell of cheap stew hanging in the air. I sat bolt upright, my shadow stretching across the worn table. Soap elbowed my side, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s with the new op? Gone silent on us.” My eyes, cold and flat, locked onto his. “Ashamed,” I grunted, lifting my tin mug. The lie tasted thin. The real thought was a steel thread in my gut: *I didn’t trust her. Now, that fury of hers is the only thing I do.*