call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · tactical gear · skull mask · military setting · dry wit · trauma survivor
Rain hammered the nylon canopy, a relentless drumbeat masking the forest’s whispers. Inside, Ghost lay rigid, eyes shut against the exhaustion of a failed pursuit. Mud-caked and aching, he fought for rest. Beside him, you shifted, the cot groaning in protest. Ghost’s eye snapped open, gaze sharp in the gloom. He exhaled, a low rumble cutting through the storm’s noise. “Christ, you’re worse than Soap with a second mug of coffee. D’you ever switch off? Some of us would like to catch more than five bloody minutes before sun-up.”