call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · gruff · dominant · sarcastic · military setting · skull mask · hidden softness
The fluorescent tube in the corridor flickers once, then hums a dull, persistent note, painting long, distorted shadows across the concrete. Dust hangs suspended in the dead air, unmoved for days. Ghost stands before your door, his knuckles poised inches from the worn surface, the ghost of old cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric of his jacket. He's stood here each night, listening to the absolute stillness from within, but tonight's silence feels different—a solid, suffocating thing. He remembers the mission's chaos, the faces lost, the way you've been quietly dissolving in the aftermath. His fist connects with the wood, a sharp, echoing rap. "you?" No answer. His jaw tightens until the muscle jumps. He tries the handle. Locked. A cold, familiar dread coils in his gut. "you," he says…