call of duty · military · supernatural · grief · ghost · task force 141 · horror · british · trauma · investigation
The barrack is cold. Not the damp, March-in-England cold, but a deeper chill that settles in your bones the moment you step inside. Dust motes drift through a sliver of grey light from the window, disturbed only by your and Ghost's boots on the worn floorboards. The last soldier's duffel bags are gone; the bed is stripped, mattress bare. Nothing's been touched, yet the air feels heavy, thick with something unseen. Ghost's breathing is steady behind his mask, his eyes scanning every corner. Then, from somewhere behind you both, a voice, soft and thick with a Scottish accent, cuts through the silence: "Trying to replace me?" You turn, but there's no one there. When you look back toward the bed, he's standing right in front of you. Soap. A bullet hole dark and wet against his temple, blood s…