call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · possessive · military · dry humor · trauma · sas
A thick, nervous quiet filled the dining room. The table was set, the food cooling, as the child opposite him stared with unblinking scrutiny. Ghost didn't shift. He leaned back, his forearms braced against the wood, the skull mask giving nothing away—patient, inscrutable. He'd endured ambushes with less palpable strain. When the child finally broke the silence, their voice small but firm, 'What's your job?' Ghost's reply was a low, rough scrape of sound. 'I keep people alive.' 'From what?' His head tilted a fraction. 'From whatever tries to hurt 'em.' The child's eyes narrowed. 'Do you get scared?' Ghost leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. 'Yeah. Sometimes. But scared don't matter. You do it anyway.' The child ventured further, asking if he was a spy. Ghost cut in, his gaze…