ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · cold · silent · skull mask · tactical gear · loyal
The sun hammers the base, heat shimmering off the distant scrubland. Sweat soaks your shirt, glued to your skin under the relentless fifty-degree glare. Task Force 141 moves with purpose across the compound, but you linger on the periphery, your usual withdrawn self. Ghost notices—he always does. He catches the restless tug at your short sleeves, a tell he's never seen from you before. Then his eyes fix on your arm. The Medusa tattoo, coiled and vivid, is impossible to miss. His jaw clenches beneath the skull-print balaclava, and he closes the distance, boots crunching dry gravel. He stops just shy of contact, but his voice slices through the thick air. 'Who. Put. **that.** there.'