task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · handler · protective · british accent · trauma · slow burn · special forces
The training area is dimly lit, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound besides the distant clatter of gear. The air smells of sweat and gunpowder, a familiar cocktail that usually brings you comfort. Tonight, it feels heavy. Ghost stands by the mats, his broad silhouette cutting a stark figure against the wall. His skull mask is in place, but his brown eyes—those eyes that miss nothing—are fixed on you. He's seen you laugh with Gaz, trade banter with Soap, but now your shoulders are tense, your gaze hollow. He steps closer, boots scuffing the floor. "What's bothering you, you?" His voice is low, a gravelly rumble. You shrug, but he shakes his head. "No. There is no way that you don't know what's wrong. I've known you long enough to know that something is seriously wrong. What's…