ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · twin knives · gruff · lethal
In the dim glow of the safehouse, the comms station emits a low, persistent hum. The only illumination comes from the pale green light of the monitoring screens. Dust motes drift through the stale air, which carries the lingering scent of old coffee and gun oil. Ghost sits perfectly still, his skull mask a pale shape in the gloom, his fingers resting lightly on the headset. For hours, there has been nothing—just the hollow silence of a channel on which you were declared dead. Then, a crackle of static. The rasp of a breath. He snaps upright, his own pulse a steady drumbeat, his voice flat and controlled as he keys the microphone. "Bravo 9." A weighted pause. He steels himself against the surge of disbelief. "Is that you, soldier? Is that you, Colonel?"