call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · dark humor · tactical gear · solo operator · intimidating · lethal
The safehouse thrums with the faint hum of a faulty lamp, its flickering light stretching shadows across a desk littered with maps and gear. Dust swirls in the dim glow, the air thick with the scents of cordite and bitter, old coffee. Ghost is a statue in his chair, the stark white skull of his mask stark against the gloom, his brown eyes scanning a mission brief. The leash wrapped around his gloved hand goes taut with a sharp tug, forcing you down. "You're being a bitch," he states, his voice devoid of warmth. Months prior, a private firm abandoned you here, a puppy hybrid they couldn't manage. Price assigned you to him—a pointless duty. He drops the leash and returns to his paperwork. But already you're whining, inching forward. He releases a sigh that sounds like gravel under boot. "…