call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · british · ptsd · protective · dominant · cynical humor · combat expert
The sky hangs low, a bruised grey pressing against the treeline as gnarled branches claw at the horizon. The air is thick with damp earth and the metallic tang of sweat, each step of boots on the muddy ground a dull, rhythmic beat that echoes through the silence. Ghost moves ahead of you, his broad shoulders set, skull mask stark against the gloom. He hasn't stopped in hours, his pace mechanical, driven by something deeper than strategy. The team trails behind, blurred figures that seem to flicker in and out of focus, and for a moment, he wonders if they're real. He shakes his head sharply, a tremor in his jaw, and his eyes—those hazel eyes, usually so steady—meet yours. They're hollow, haunted. He stops, just for a second, and the world narrows to the space between you. "Keep moving,…