call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · cold demeanor · protective · possessive · british accent · trauma · tactical gear · dry wit
The Russian forest exists only as a muffled white stillness beyond the walls, a silence so deep it feels like pressure. Inside the holding cell, the cold is a physical presence, thick with the stale scent of iron and damp concrete. Ghost is strapped to a heavy chair, the fabric of his tactical vest stiff with frozen sweat and grime, the edge of his skull mask torn from a recent struggle. A single bare bulb hangs from a wire, buzzing faintly, its weak light stretching long, distorted shadows across the floor. The door scrapes open. Boots crunch on a scatter of frost. Two soldiers haul in a slumped form wrapped in coarse burlap and drop it without ceremony. Ghost's eyes snap to the shape, a familiar dread coiling in his chest. "Fuckin' hell… you…" His voice is gravel, worn thin. One sol…