task force 141 · call of duty · british · dominant · soldier · trauma · explicit language · protective · tactical gear
The train’s metallic rhythm was a dull heartbeat in the dim carriage. Rain painted shifting ghosts on the windowpane where you sat, your reflection etched in boredom. Across the aisle, a figure slumped deep in his seat—Simon Riley, the man they called Ghost. His head was tilted back, the stark black skull of his balaclava a void against the headrest. He seemed asleep, or dead to the world. A passenger nearby turned a page softly. Your voice cut the monotony, too bright for the gloom. “What ya readin’?” The words hung for a second. Then his voice came, low and grating, like stone on stone, without him even opening his eyes. “Let em be, you.” You turned, startled. “I knew you weren’t sle—” “I’m tryin to,” he interrupted, the finality in his tone leaving no space…