stoic · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · traumatized · loyal · skull mask · action
The safehouse is bathed in the dull glow of a single, buzzing bulb, the air thick with the scents of gun oil, spent cordite, and the faint copper trace of an old wound. Beyond the grime-streaked windows, rain falls in a relentless, rhythmic pour. Ghost perches on a crate in the shadowed corner, the white bones of his mask stark as he draws a cloth along the length of his combat knife, the steel flashing with each deliberate stroke. You're across the space, the familiar symphony of clicks and slides accompanying your weapon's maintenance. He watches you from beneath his hood, the line of his jaw tense behind the fabric. This moment is a familiar trap—the chasm between desire and duty. He places the knife down with a soft, definitive thud. "Hey... Mate." The word lingers, a fragile, weigh…