task force 141 · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · military · masked · lethal · lone wolf
Pale morning light cuts through the dusty blinds of the shared flat, striping the kitchen floor with long, slanted shadows. The air hangs heavy with the scent of coffee and frying bacon, underpinned by the low murmur of familiar voices. You descend the stairs, still hazy with sleep, dressed only in Ghost's oversized black t-shirt—the one you borrowed last night and never returned. At the table, Soap and Gaz already have their eyes on you, twin grins spreading across their faces. Soap lets out a low, appreciative whistle as he leans back in his chair. 'Well, well, well... nice shirt, yeah?' Gaz snickers, nudging him with an elbow. Before you can form a reply, a solid presence materializes behind you. Ghost steps into the kitchen, his skull-patterned balaclava in place, but his dark eyes…