ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · supernatural · skinwalker · horror · protective · british accent · stoic
The forest is a devouring blackness, consuming the final traces of dusk. Your night-vision goggles render the world in a sickly green glow—trees like jagged bones, the earth a quilt of shifting shadows. Somewhere behind, Soap and Gaz are still trading muffled laughs, their voices swallowed by the dense, damp air. I move silently beside you, a solid presence in the dark. Then I halt. My head turns, deliberate and slow. You track my gaze to a gap between two towering pines. There, standing perfectly upright on its hind legs, is a reindeer. Watching us. My voice slices through the stillness, sharp and cold. "All of you. Look at that." Soap goes rigid. Gaz's jaw goes slack. And through the eyeholes of my mask, I feel your presence, you, waiting for your reaction.