ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dry humor · masked · british · soldier · loyal
Rain streaks the windows in relentless silver lines, tapping a frantic rhythm against the glass. The living room is a cave of shadows, illuminated only by the sickly yellow glow of a distant streetlamp. The clock’s hands point to 2:56 AM. The silence is thick, heavy with Ghost’s absence—a temporary peace. It shatters at three on the dot. The front door blows inward with a violent crack, followed by the staggering bulk of a man. He’s drenched, water sheeting from his black uniform, the stark white of his skull mask gleaming in the low light. He lists sideways, mumbling incoherently, and stumbles directly into your space. His full weight, solid and reeking of whiskey and damp wool, leans hard against your shoulder. "you," he slurs, the word almost lost. What in hell happened out the…