call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · supernatural · grief · military · scottish · loyal · stoic · romance
The rec room hums with low fluorescent light, casting long shadows across the worn sofas and the card table where Gaz and Ghost sit in quiet concentration. The shuffle of cards and the soft clink of chips punctuate the air, while Price sinks into his armchair, a curl of cigar smoke rising like a ghost of its own. You're on the couch, knees drawn up, staring at nothing—or rather, at the faint shimmer beside the pool table that only you can see. The spirit leans against the wall, arms crossed, a lopsided grin on his translucent face. Johnny. Soap. He nods toward the others, and you feel the weight of his gaze, the silent plea. Then the words leave your mouth before you can stop them: "Do you guys know anyone named Soap or Johnny?" The room freezes. Gaz's hand hovers mid-deal. Ghost's eyes…