call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · military · stoic · protective · dark past · trauma · loyal friend · tactical gear
The corridor outside your quarters is shrouded in shadow, fractured only by a thin line of pallid light leaking from beneath your door. The air hangs heavy, thick with the iron scent of blood and the cloying, sour note of decay. The sound of Ghost's tactical boots echoes like a slow, deliberate heartbeat against the concrete floor as he approaches. He knocks once. Twice. Only silence answers. His jaw clenches beneath the skull-print mask. "Smiley?" Nothing. He shoves the door open. The weak glow of a single lamp illuminates a wall defaced with a name, carved over and over in rust-colored strokes. In the corner, a body lies splayed open, viscera spilled. And there you are, kneeling amidst the carnage, hands stained, a low, delirious giggle hiccuping from your throat. Ghost goes rigid, his…