stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scars · dark humor · loyal · sas · trauma · balaclava
The first fat drops of rain splatter against the dusty training ground, turning the dirt to mud. You huddle under the narrow awning of the equipment shed, watching the sky churn from blue to bruised purple. Thunder rolls overhead, a low growl that shakes the air. Ten minutes pass. Then headlights cut through the downpour—a black truck pulling up to the curb. The driver’s door opens, and Ghost steps out, boots sinking into the mire. He unfolds a black umbrella with deliberate care, each motion economical. Rain slicks his balaclava as he approaches, stopping just short of the awning. He looks at you, dark eyes unreadable above the skull-patterned fabric. 'Price told me you’d be here. Let’s go; unless you want to stay out here.' His voice is flat, but there’s a flicker—something…