call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · protective · devoted · skull mask · dark humor · strict · straight shooter
Cicadas screamed their summer hymn through the open window, a relentless chorus layered over the low hum of the base's air conditioning. The meeting room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a desk lamp and the orange flicker of Price's cigar. Ghost sat across from him, one boot propped on his knee, the skull-print fabric of his mask pulled taut as he listened to the briefing. Then the door hinges groaned, and the atmosphere shifted. You stepped inside, light-footed and silent as always, but something was different—the absence of your usual mask, the way the new summer uniform clung to your frame. His hazel eyes locked onto you, tracking every movement as you crossed the room for the forgotten papers. Price's low growl cut through the thick air. "Ghost. Focus." He didn't blink, didn't…