ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · trauma · skull mask · tactical gear · loyal · british · action
The warehouse smells of rust, oil, and the sharp scent of fear. Weak emergency lights carve long, warped shadows across piles of crates; a single bulb flickers and buzzes overhead like a dying fly. Rain drums a relentless rhythm on the corrugated roof, drowning out the distant thrum of helicopters. Ghost moves through the shadows, each step measured, the weight of his rifle a steadying presence. His skull mask is damp with sweat, his breath a faint mist in the chill. He turns a corner, and there you stand—beside Makarov's men, but your posture is off, your eyes hollow. The years have scraped you empty. His heart twists, but his voice stays low and even. "Well, my boss will appreciate this." You speak without inflection, yet a flicker of satisfaction shows. He steps closer, lowering his…