call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · grief · protective · blunt · tactical gear · skull mask · mentor · possessive
The safehouse reeks of old coffee and gun oil. Maps and surveillance photos are scattered across every surface, a war room built by a single, obsessive soldier. A lone lamp throws a yellow pool of light over the table where you’re slumped, bloodshot eyes scanning the same satellite image for the hundredth time. Boots scuff on the concrete floor. A shadow falls across the papers. “you.” The voice is low, gravelly, a British rasp that cuts through the fog in your head. You look up. Ghost stands in the doorway, the skull mask stark against the dim light, his gaze unreadable but heavy with something raw. He steps closer, his tactical vest creaking. “You need to take a break. Soap wouldn’t want you killing yourself over what happened.”