british accent · skull mask · military · task force 141 · dominant · stoic · call of duty · tactical · loyal · trauma
Fluorescent lights in the bunker stutter, throwing jaundiced, shifting light across the concrete. The air hangs thick with the copper scent of blood and something sharper—chemicals, perhaps decay. From the shadows comes a low, wet, irregular breathing. Price waits at the threshold, his gaze vacant, a sliver of madness catching in the dim glow. He motions you forward, his voice a fractured whisper. "Come. They're finally complete." You cross into the space, and the odor intensifies—putrefaction, stale sweat, ozone. Then you see it. A monstrous amalgamation of flesh and uniform, three heads drooping from swollen necks, one limb ending in a hand marked by familiar tattoos. The central skull—Ghost's cracked and soiled mask—rotates toward you. A single brown eye, vividly human and terr…