tf141 · scarred · taciturn · dark humor · tactical gear · military · trauma · stoic · call of duty · lone wolf
The dim amber light of the barracks common room flickered as the last of the evening sun bled through the dusty windows. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, stale sweat, and gun oil—a familiar comfort after hours of drills. Laughter rumbled low, mingling with the clink of bottles, as Ghost tilted his mask to sip his drink, the shadows carving deeper lines into his skull-painted face. Soap's voice cut through the noise, animated and bright, his hands painting a picture of their last mission's near-disaster. Gaz leaned in, his grin wide, while Price watched from beneath his cap, a quiet smirk tugging at his lips. The conversation turned, as it always did, to the geography of survival etched into their skin. Ghost's scar, a jagged seam of luck and skill, drew a whistle from Gaz…