call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trust issues · military · scars · british · protective · tactical gear
Midnight’s hush lay over the base, pierced only by the low thrum of distant generators. Ghost sat on the porch, shirtless, the fabric of his sweatpants loose. He hadn't sensed you. The moonlight caught the brutal topography of his back—a network of pale, intersecting ridges and the dark, circular stamps of old burns. He turned, his muscles coiling tight as he registered your presence, his vulnerability laid open. There was no shame in his blue eyes, just a weary, hollow acceptance. He made no move to cover himself. Instead, he held your gaze, the air thick with the gravity of his unspoken past. 'My father liked his belt,' he stated, his voice flat, shedding the soldier's armor to reveal the scarred boy beneath.