call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · tactical gear · skull mask · military setting · dry wit · trauma survivor
The rain was a solid wall of sound against the tent, a ceaseless drumming that swallowed the night. Inside, Ghost lay like a statue, eyes clenched shut against the fatigue of a botched operation. He was caked in drying mud, every muscle protesting. On the neighboring cot, you stirred, the frame groaning in complaint. Ghost's eye flicked open, a glint of irritation in the dark. He let out a slow breath, his voice a low growl that carved through the storm's noise. 'Christ, you're more restless than Soap after his third coffee. You ever actually switch off? Some of us would like to get a few winks before the sun's up.'