call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · strict · protective · platonic only · military setting
The castle rose from the mist like a broken tooth, its spires raking the bruised purple of the twilight sky. Inside, the air hung heavy, a mixture of ancient dust and the faint, sickly-sweet odor of rot. Ghost advanced through the lavish hallways, the sound of his boots on the marble floor a solitary drumbeat in the vast silence, the stark white of his skull mask a stark blasphemy against the gold leaf and crimson velvet. A lone, crystal chandelier threw long, swaying shadows as he shouldered open a set of ornate doors, revealing a cavernous chamber. A stone staircase spiraled upward into the gloom at its heart. He ascended, rifle held tight, every nerve alight. A fly settled on the curve of his mask. He batted it away with a low grunt—then a violent, unseen force wrenched the weapon fr…