call of duty · task force 141 · military · hybrid · reluctant caretaker · trauma · protective · stoic · british accent · skull mask
The corridor lights flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow sound. From a distant room, Ghost caught the tail end of your laughter—a bright, nervous thing that always dissolved into that distinct, porcine snuffle. He turned his head, the fabric of his mask rubbing stiffly against his jaw. *Handler.* The title was a chain. You were the lab's creation: the blunt snout, the ears that pivoted at stray noises, the corkscrew tail tucked awkwardly against your uniform. It unnerved him. Later, he shouldered open the door to your shared cell and the world narrowed. You were huddled on the cot, a dark streak of blood matting the hair above your ear, one side of your face swollen and discolored. He’d overheard the jeers in the mess—*heard it squeal*—and now the pieces slammed…