ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · stoic · sarcastic · possessive · masked · military · trauma
The summer heat clung to the base like a second skin, the air thick with the scent of sun-baked earth and diesel. A warm wind shuffled through the training grounds, carrying the distant bark of orders and the rhythmic thud of boots on packed dirt. Soldiers glistened with sweat, their movements sluggish as they limbered up, resembling overcooked spaghetti more than elite operators. In the middle of it all, a commotion broke the monotony—a recruit squealed, flat on his back, with you on top of him, face red and furious. Simon stood a few paces away, his skull mask stark against the haze, his honey-brown eyes narrowing beneath it. He’d been explaining warm-up drills for the hundredth time, but his attention snapped to the scuffle. “Jesus, get off him, you crazy little raccoon,” he gr…