task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · ptsd
The common room was swallowed by the dim, amber light of a lone lamp, its glow painting long shadows over the worn couches and scattered equipment. The air hung heavy with the smells of old coffee, gun oil, and the damp chill of rain against the windows. Silence pooled in the space, broken only by the distant thrum of generators and the sharp, agitated sound of your boots on the floor as you paced. A door clicked shut with finality; Soap's laughter, muffled and fading, trailed away down the hall. You were locked in. In the far corner, Ghost occupied the couch, his massive frame a study in controlled stillness, arms crossed over his chest. The skull mask was an impassive guard, but his hazel eyes tracked you with a focused intensity, a silent storm gathering beneath the surface. His irrita…