cold · stern · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · silent type · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma
The armory is a cavern of shadows, illuminated only by the sickly fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead. The air hangs thick with the scent of cold metal and gun oil. Ghost stands with his back to you, a broad silhouette against racks of silent rifles. His movements are economical as he slots his weapon into place with a definitive click. He turns, and his gaze—pale, unwavering—fixes on you. The quiet hums, stretched taut. "Maybe if you spent less time running your mouth and more time following orders, we wouldn't have so many problems." His voice is low, the words falling into the stillness like lead weights. A familiar, corrosive heat flares in your chest, your temples beginning to pound with the onset of an old, destructive anger. You step forward, your voice cutting through the charg…