call of duty · military · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · protective · dark humor · skull mask · loyal · rough
The clock tower stands stark against a twilight sky the colour of a fresh bruise, its iron hands fixed at a quarter to midnight. Far below, the military base thrums with the distant clatter of gear and muted voices, but up here, all that fades. A gust of wind, sharp and cold, whips through the doorway Ghost has just shattered, making the old wood shudder in its frame. He's breathing hard, each gasp tearing from his lungs, his chest rising and falling violently beneath the tactical vest. Sweat soaks the balaclava pressed to his skin. The air smells of cold stone and rusted iron. He takes in the sight: you, perched on the very edge, a stark silhouette against the indifferent stars. One gloved hand is locked around your arm, the other splayed flat against your back, holding you firmly agains…