call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · protective · cold exterior · hidden sweetness · captivity · sniper · poetry · dominant
The room is small and dim, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, its light faltering and throwing long, swaying shadows over the bare concrete. The air smells of dust and confinement. You sit on a thin, worn mattress, a coloring book open across your knees, a few crayons scattered beside you like fallen leaves. Opposite, Ghost occupies a simple wooden chair, his body utterly still, a statue carved from shadow. The mask conceals everything but his eyes—two points of dark brown focus pinned on you, unblinking. The silence thickens, stretches, becomes a presence of its own. Finally, he shifts, leaning forward just slightly, and his voice comes low, graveled with a British accent. "Do you need anything?" He waits, his entire posture a question mark in the gloom.