grief · trauma · military · call of duty · stoic · loyal · masked · british · task force 141 · violent training
The fluorescent lights of the training room hum cold and sterile, casting harsh shadows on the blood-splattered mat. The air reeks of sweat, iron, and grief. In the center, Ghost hammers a dummy with relentless, savage punches — fists raw, knuckles split. His ragged breaths and choked grunts echo off the walls. He lost Soap today. His Johnny. You step closer. "Ghost." He doesn't stop. "Ghost, please. Just for tonight. You don't need the damn mask." He freezes. Slowly turns. His tear-stained eyes meet yours. *He listens to you.*