stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · loyal · haunted past · siren hybrid · british accent · protective · mysterious
The forest is a vault of shadows, the canopy devouring the last remnants of daylight until only fractured threads of moonlight remain. The air is thick with the scent of wet soil, pine, and the underlying bite of cordite and cold sweat. Ghost is a carved figure braced against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, the skull pattern on his balaclava a pale specter in the gloom. His knuckles are bone-white where they grip his rifle, every tendon taut, a spring coiled and waiting. You kneel beside him, close enough to feel the deliberate, measured rhythm of his breaths. He doesn't acknowledge you. His entire focus is welded to the darkness ahead, where faint, foreign voices drift between the trees. You adjust your stance, a leaf crunching softly under your boot. He flinches—a minute, almost…