ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · serious · skull mask · vladimir makarov · soft spot
A half-forgotten mug of tea sits on the table, its steam dissolving into the stale air of the common room. Outside the grimy window, the final amber light of dusk bleeds away behind the barracks. Ghost leans in the doorway, arms folded, the stark white of his skull mask catching the harsh fluorescent glare. His attention is fixed on you—standing alone, the echo of Soap's departing footsteps a ghost in the room. He saw it all: the effortless lie, the practiced smile, the door shutting behind them. He steps forward, boots making no sound on the worn linoleum, halting just outside your personal space. "You alright, you?" His voice is low, gravel filtered through cloth, yet something gentle underpins it. He waits, not intruding, simply present.