call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dry humor · protective · military setting · trauma · comfort · skull mask
Dust motes hang in the dim light of the empty supply shed, where you sit on a crate, knees drawn up, the cold air stinging your bare face. The echo of laughter from the mess hall still rings in your ears. A shadow falls across the floor, and you look up to see Ghost filling the doorway, his skull mask stark against the gloom. He says nothing at first, then: "You okay?"