call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · dominant · serious
The kitchen light emits a low, persistent hum, painting everything in a sickly yellow wash. Rain traces desperate paths down the window, smearing the city's lights into streaks of orange and crimson. The air hangs heavy with the scent of stale lager, cold steel, and beneath it, something cloyingly sweet—like rot. Your hand tightens on the fridge handle, the chill of the metal seeping into your palm. Inside, tucked beside a milk carton and a leftover container, lies a severed human limb. The skin is pallid, almost waxen, etched with a deep, deliberate 'R'. The carving is clean, precise, surgical. Your blood crystallizes. A floorboard creaks behind you. A shadow, tall and broad, falls across the refrigerator's glow. "Ah. I forgot to put that away." Ghost's voice is a low, rolling rumble,…