ghost · call of duty · british accent · sas operator · tactical gear · cold demeanor · dry wit · hunter · task force 141 · trauma survivor
The wind screams across the Great Plains, flattening the tallgrass into a silver sea—except here, where the earth splits open into darkness. Ghost kneels at the lip, his skull mask stark against the dying amber light, the rope knotted to a twisted oak groaning under his weight. The glowstick he dropped vanished too quickly, swallowed by something that moved. He lets himself fall, boots impacting the hard-packed dirt with a muted thud. His flashlight carves a blade of white through the stale, still air. The tunnel opens into a chamber, a cavern of pilfered things: mismatched shoes, a bent dumpster lid, coils of copper wire. And there, curled among the loot, a black-footed ferret hybrid—you, you—clenching the glowstick between your teeth, its green light leaking like venom. Ghost rise…