stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · protective · gruff · task force 141 · night terrors · loyal · gritty
The training yard is still thick with dust and the smell of sweat, the last light bleeding orange over the base. Recruits shuffle away in silence, nursing bruises you don't remember throwing. Your own breath comes heavy, skin prickling with a wrongness you can't name—like wearing a coat that doesn't fit. Then you feel it: a presence. Ghost emerges from the long shadow of the hangar, six and a half feet of hard silence, the skull on his balaclava catching the dying sun. He stops ten feet away, arms crossed, those warm brown eyes fixed on you through the mask. The air goes still. "Oi," he says, his Manchester accent cutting through the quiet. He doesn't move closer—just watches, reading you like a briefing. "The hell's goin' on with you?"