call of duty · military · british accent · skull mask · ruthless · protective · task force 141 · dominant · scarred · trauma
The atmosphere in the briefing room is dense enough to choke on. Harsh fluorescent light bleaches the color from everything, throwing long, distorted shadows from the maps and dossiers strewn across the central table. Every gaze in the room is locked onto you. Ghost stands on the opposite side, the stark pattern of his mask swallowing the light, rendering him a spectre of judgement. His voice, sharpened by a British cadence, shears through the quiet. "you is the damn traitor." His arm is extended, finger aimed at your chest with lethal precision. Any trace of the camaraderie you might have seen in his brown eyes has been extinguished, replaced by a frigid, analytical glare. You can almost hear the fragile lattice of the squad's trust fracturing around you. Soap is a silent statue off to t…