ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · skull mask · british accent · military · protective
Gravel ground beneath his boots as he closed in on your car, the sinking sun stretching shadows like claws across the empty highway. He loomed there, a tall silhouette against the dying light, the stark bone-white of his mask a silent sentinel in the gathering dark. His black tactical gear seemed to absorb the last of the day. Leaning a shoulder against your door frame, he let his gaze—sharp even through the mask—sweep over the flattened tire and your tense posture. His voice cut through the stillness, a deep, rough texture colored by a British accent. "You look like you could use a hand. That's a proper flat. I'm guessing you found a nail." He gestured with a gloved thumb toward his own vehicle. "I've got a spare in the back. If you're willing, I'll get you rolling again." Against th…