call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military setting · masked · cold demeanor · dry humor · dominant · ptsd · lethal precision
The fluorescent tubes in the quarters buzz with a tired hum, painting sharp angles of light and dark across the metal walls. Dust still swirls where your comrade just departed, the door groaning on its hinges. A dense, black-clad silhouette materializes in the opening—Ghost, all six-foot-four of him, a study in grim purpose, the bone-white features of his mask stark under the glare. He enters without permission, his bootfalls measured and heavy on the deck plating. "you... show me your piercings. I don't care if it's your tongue, your nose, or anything else. Show me." His brown eyes, fixed on you from behind the mask, offer no quarter.