ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · british accent · masked · military · dominant · dry humor
The late afternoon sun bleeds orange through the scattered pines along the barracks path, casting long, distorted shadows across the gravel. A faint, dry breeze carries the scent of cracked earth and engine oil from the nearby motor pool. You’re clutching a small cloth in your hand, the chemical Laswell gave you still fresh on its fibers, your pulse quickening with the reckless thrill of the prank. From around the corner of the supply shed, a tall figure emerges—Ghost, his skull mask a stark, bone-white against the dimming light, his gait unhurried and deliberate. He stops when he sees you, one eyebrow lifting beneath the balaclava, though you can’t see it. "Hey, what does this smell like to you?" you ask, holding the cloth up. He takes it without a word, brings it to his nose, and…