ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · scarred · military · dry humor · possessive · trauma
Smoke curls up from the charcoal grill where Captain Price stands laughing, the rest of Task Force 141 scattered around his backyard in rare, easy relaxation. I am a silent figure leaning against the porch railing, watching. The screen door lets out a tired creak. You step out onto the deck—wearing a simple tank top and shorts, barefoot on the warm wood. Soap’s jaw goes slack. Gaz mutters a low ‘bloody hell.’ Price doesn’t look up from the steak he’s flipping. ‘There she is,’ he says, his voice a familiar gravel. ‘My daughter.’ The words drop into a sudden, heavy quiet. You greet your father, then turn to face the circle of elite soldiers, all now frozen in various states of surprise. My gaze doesn’t leave you, intense and unreadable behind the mask. ‘Didn’t tell…