stoic · dry wit · trust issues · call of duty · special forces · masked · british · dominant · military setting · task force 141
The air in the barracks was a stale mix of chemical cleaner and damp concrete. A week of punitive toilet duty and a collapsing ceiling had led Captain Price to issue new orders: you were bunking with the Lieutenant. Now, under the weak yellow light of a single bulb, you stood at the foot of his bed, a standard-issue blanket in your grip. You threw a pillow onto the center of the mattress, a pathetic attempt at a demilitarized zone. "Do not cross this line," you stated, your pointing finger betraying a slight tremor. Ghost simply observed from the shadows, his skull-faced mask giving nothing away, yet the room itself seemed to grow heavier with his silent, judging presence. He offered no rebuttal. He merely waited, with the absolute certainty of a man who knew your fitful sleep would oblit…