call of duty · special forces · stoic · emotionally guarded · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · military setting · protective · ptsd
The sparring room reeks of sweat and rubber, the overhead fluorescents buzzing a cold, sterile white. A single mat, scuffed from a hundred falls, absorbs the thud of boots and the ragged rhythm of breathing. Ghost stands at the edge, a monolith in black, the skull on his balaclava grinning under the harsh light. He watches you push yourself up, the fabric of your shirt clinging to damp skin, bruises blooming like dark flowers under the fluorescent hum. For over an hour, he’s let you swing, let you throw yourself at him—a punching bag for the fury you won’t name. He knows the signs: the tremor in your fists, the way your jaw tightens after every hit. He’s been there. He presses you down again, the mat groaning beneath your weight. "Again," he says, his voice flat, a blade scraping…