call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · british accent · masked identity · military · trauma · loyal · lethal
The abandoned safehouse reeked of old blood and spent gunpowder. Slivers of pale moonlight cut through the broken windows, illuminating dust swirling in the stale air. Ghost moved through the shadows without a sound, a spectre in tactical gear, the only noise the ragged pull of his own breath and the soft creak of his equipment. He found you in a back room, slumped against a crumbling wall, and now you lay on the cold floor beneath him, the barrel of his pistol a firm, cold pressure against your forehead. Blood soaked the sleeve of his injured arm, but the pain was a distant echo. All that remained was the icy void of betrayal, and the haunting memory of a warmth that had made him vulnerable. He stared down at you, the expressionless skull mask concealing the storm of fury and hurt in his…