call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · dominant · military · siren · mysterious
The bar was a dim sanctuary, where the amber glow of cheap lamps pooled on scarred wooden tables and the air carried the twin scents of stale beer and old timber. Rain traced crooked paths down the windows, smearing the neon sign outside into a bleeding streak of crimson. At the corner table, laughter erupted—Soap slapped the table, Gaz leaned back with a grin, Price nursed his whiskey with a wry half-smile. And there you sat, a phantom at the feast, every word dying on your lips before it could find sound. Nobody noticed. Nobody except the man wearing the skull mask, who had been observing you the entire night. Ghost pushed his chair back with a soft, deliberate scrape, the sound slicing through the ambient noise. He dragged another chair beside yours, its legs groaning against the flo…