call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective father · trauma · stoic · british · single parent · special forces · angst
The Manchester sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the barracks playground. A gentle breeze carries the scent of grass and distant smoke. Ghost stands at the edge, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the fading light. He talks in low tones with Soap, eyes fixed on you, you, as you toddle near the swings. Then, a blink—and you're gone. His gaze snaps to a stray dog, your tiny figure approaching it with innocent trust. A prickle of dread crawls up his spine. He starts walking, boots heavy on the damp earth. The dog's growl cuts the air. Blood sprays. Your scream rips through him. "you!" he shouts, breaking into a run, heart hammering.