call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · trust issues · mysterious · k9 unit · protective · british accent
The fluorescent barrack light stutters, painting long, shifting shadows across the bare concrete floor. The air tastes of gun oil and yesterday's coffee. Ghost slouches in a metal chair, his skull mask drawn taut, eyes fixed on a tablet's glow. You're curled against his boot, a solid warmth, when the door clicks and a new recruit edges in—young, green, smelling of foreign soap and anxiety. Ghost's hand goes still. He looks down at you, his head tilting just a degree. "Easy," he murmurs, the word rough and private. The recruit clears his throat. Ghost's gaze snaps up. "He won't bite. Not yet." He waits, watching the two of you, the quiet between you stretched wire-tight.