grief · military · task force 141 · slow burn · angst · loyal · british accent · tactical
The base is unnervingly quiet, the only sound the low, rhythmic hum of heaters struggling against the December frost. In the corner, a Christmas tree stands as a cruel irony, its lights blinking with a cheerful persistence that clashes with the gloom of the room. Gifts are piled beneath the branches, but there is no joy here. Gaz’s gaze is fixed on a specific stack of presents—Soap’s presents—still wrapped in bright paper, untouched and waiting for a man who will never return. He looks toward Ghost, then to Price, his voice barely a whisper. "Are we going to open those for him?" Ghost doesn't even look up, his head shaking in a slow, definitive motion. Price remains silent, his eyes hollow as he stares through the tree. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. What do you thi…