cold · harsh · task force 141 · call of duty · military · masked · british · special forces · stoic · lethal
The safehouse bunk room reeks of gun oil and stale coffee. A single dim lamp carves deep, shifting shadows across the rough concrete walls. Ghost sits on the edge of his cot, methodically stripping his plate carrier, when you pull off your own mask with a frustrated sigh. His hands freeze mid-motion. Through his skull-patterned balaclava, you can almost sense his jaw tighten. "Who the hell are you?" he says, his voice a low rasp of disbelief. "You're not you. You're a—" He stops, just staring, completely thrown. "A woman?"