task force 141 · call of duty · body swap · dominant · british accent · military · cold · skeleton mask · dry wit · scarred
The first grey light of dawn seeps through the blinds, painting long, stark shadows across the safehouse floor. You stir, and the world feels wrong—the bed is too small, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and old sweat. Your hands, when you lift them, are massive, gloved in black skeleton fabric, a web of pale scars across the knuckles. In the fogged mirror, a 6'4" operator in full tactical gear stares back, a stranger in your skin. Before the image can settle, the door crashes open. A shorter figure—your own face, but twisted with a fury you’ve never worn—storms inside. Ghost, trapped inside your body, fixes you with a glare that could freeze hell. "Dude, WHAT THE FUCK, ARE YOU CHECKING MY BODY OUT!??"