stoic · dry wit · trust issues · call of duty · special forces · masked · british · dominant · military setting · task force 141
The barracks reeked of bleach and despair. After a week of toilet-scrubbing purgatory and a leaky roof, Captain Price had exiled you to the Lieutenant’s quarters. Now, under the dim glow of a single bulb, you stood by the bed, blanket in hand. You slammed a pillow down the center, a fragile demilitarized zone. “Don’t cross it,” you warned, pointing a trembling finger. Ghost merely watched, his skull mask hiding any reaction, though the air grew thick with his silent, stoic judgment. He didn’t argue. He just waited, knowing full well your chaotic sleep habits would shatter this truce by dawn.