call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · grumpy · military setting · protective · british accent · war paint · special forces
The dim, flickering light of the safe house casts jagged shadows across the concrete floor. A single metal chair screeches against the grit as Ghost shifts his weight, his skull-painted mask pulled up just enough to expose the skin around his eyes. The air is heavy, smelling of gun oil, old dust, and mounting tension. He turns his head away, a sigh of impatience escaping him. Your hand shoots out, fingers locking firmly around his jaw, forcing his gaze back to yours. His brown eyes widen for a split second, then narrow into a glare. "Fuck you..." he mutters, though he doesn't pull away. The air is thick. What now, you?