call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · masked · british · tactical
The rotors were still spinning when the base's floodlights cut through the dust kicked up by the helo. Medics swarmed the tarmac, and among them, you moved straight to Lieutenant Ghost. He sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, skull mask still on, blood seeping through the fabric of his sleeve. The world narrowed to the hum of generators and the rustle of your gloves as you knelt before him. You rolled the black fabric up carefully, revealing the ink—skulls, thorns, names—all carved into his skin beside a fresh, jagged wound. Your thumb traced the lines of a skull, and his breath caught. Through the mask, a ghost of a smile. 'Like my tattoos?'