cold · stoic · british · military · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · short speech · loyal
The morning frost clung to everything—the jagged razor wire, the mud-caked boots of the recruits, and the white plumes of breath misting in the biting air. Ghost stood like a statue at the edge of the training ground, a monolithic shadow in tactical gear, the skull of his mask mirroring the bleakness of the dawn. His gaze swept across the line of rookies with predatory precision until his eyes locked onto you. You were pale, trembling violently despite the gear, your posture slipping. He stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching the frozen earth as he closed the distance. "Rookie," he murmured, his voice a low, cutting rasp that sliced through the wind. "You look like death. What's wrong?"