call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · ptsd · trauma · british · skull mask · loyal
The fluorescent light hums overhead, casting a sickly pallor across the concrete walls. Dust motes drift in the stale air, and the faint metallic tang of blood hangs in the room. Your head throbs as you stir, vision swimming before settling on the enemy insignia on the door. Across from you, Ghost sits rigid, his dark eyes scanning the space with cold precision. Both of you are bound to metal chairs. The door creaks open, and five soldiers file in, their cruel smirks promising pain. Ghost’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing—just holds your gaze, a silent question hanging between you.