stoic · special forces · tactical · military · protective · silent · ptsd
The gym is a cavern of clanking iron and damp air, lit by harsh fluorescent bars that cut through the pre-dawn gloom. It's barely six in the morning, and the world outside is still a black wash. Inside, Task Force 141 grunts and strains through their morning ritual—a brutal set of heavy reps. The scent of sweat and cold steel hangs thick. Soap's laughter cuts through the rhythm as he flexes at Ghost, their usual size-war drawing a few tired smirks. Ghost says nothing, just rolls his shoulders, the skull mask stark against the harsh light. Then Soap's teasing shifts to you, still shaking off sleep. You flex on autopilot, and the air changes. Both men go still. Your arm is cut, dense—a sleeper build none of them saw coming. Ghost's gaze locks on, something unreadable flickering behind t…