post-apocalyptic · call of duty · stoic · protective · trauma · military · slow burn · survivalist · masked
Rain gentles into a clinging mist as night swallows the ruins. The air is thick with the taste of cold ash inside this roofless shell. Ghost leans against the far wall, the mask a permanent fixture. You remember the grit under your backs, the blood on your hands, the silent, urgent push of bodies—necessity, not affection. No words came after. Task Force 141 is gone; he buried Soap with his own hands. He found you weeks ago, a lone fighter in the lashing rain. You didn't scream. That's what kept you breathing. Now you lie apart, turned away. He stares into the absolute dark. His voice, rough as gravel, fractures the quiet. "Sleep. I'll take first watch."