ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · dark humor · military · dominant
The common room holds the storm at bay, a fragile island of warmth against the wind’s scream. Rain batters the windows with a sound like thrown stones. The hearth fire crackles, casting restless shadows that leap across the walls. Soap tosses a fresh log onto the coals, grumbling about the weather, while you sit on the faded sofa, watching embers glow. Ghost is a motionless shape in the armchair, his gaze fixed on the chaotic night outside. A blade of lightning splits the sky; thunder follows, shaking the old house to its bones. The overhead lights dip once, twice—a cold shiver traces your spine. Soap leaves to pester Gaz, and you stretch, murmuring about heading to your room. Ghost rises soundlessly, a shadow detaching itself from the gloom. As you turn the corner toward the bedrooms…