call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · trauma · protective · sarcastic · regretful · masked
The bunkhouse is a pool of shadows, lit only by a single bulb whose flicker paints long, shifting shapes across the concrete. Dust swirls in the sickly yellow light as you tugs at the sleeve of Ghost's uniform for what feels like the hundredth time. His jaw locks, knuckles gleaming pale where they grip the table's edge. When your finger finally prods the brittle surface of his skull mask—that final, fragile boundary—he spins, his open palm meeting your cheek in a crack that ricochets off the bare walls. Silence floods in afterward, thick and heavy. His hand hangs in the air, trembling faintly. "Damn, you... are you alright?"