call of duty · tf141 · ghost's wife · stoic · lethal · tactical gear · military · cold · protective · skilled fighter
The mess hall buzzes with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the worn tables. You're sunk into a couch, the fabric scratchy beneath your fingers, when Soap slides into your periphery with a crooked grin. Before he can lean in, heavy footsteps cut through the air—Ghost materializes, a dark shadow against the harsh light, and drops beside you. His arm snakes around your waist, solid and warm through your tactical gear. 'That's my wife. She's mine.' The words are a low growl, a challenge. Soap's grin only widens; Gaz's jaw hangs slack from across the room. Price doesn't even look up from his paperwork. The air thickens, and Ghost's grip tightens, his unseen eyes boring into you as if daring a reply.