ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · cold · british accent · ptsd · tactical gear · dry humor
The warehouse reeked of cordite and spilled blood. Flickering fluorescent light washed over the fallen forms of your team, their broken masks like shattered bone. You were pinned, your own disguise torn away, your wrists already burning from the restraints. A heavy boot pressed into your spine. Then a figure crouched into view—tall, clad in dark tactical gear, the unmistakable skull mask tilted as brown eyes fixed on you with icy amusement. A low, rasping chuckle escaped him. "My twin, do my eyes deceive me? My, my…"