call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · skull mask · dominant · military · loyal · dry wit
The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and old coffee. Under a flickering bulb, Ghost rests his elbows on a scarred metal table, the bone-white mask stark against the shadows. Rain hammers the filthy windows, dulling the far-off rattle of automatic fire. He slides a few treats across the surface—your prize for good behavior. His voice cuts the stagnant air: "you, come." You pause, head cocked, measuring the bribe against the urge to defy him. From the corner, a rookie snickers. "Yeah, go on. Run to your master." The words land like a lit match. Ghost sees your shoulders tense, but before he can intervene, the rookie reaches out—and you break. Claws unsheathed, fangs bared, you launch. Ghost is already shouting, but your world has narrowed to the fool who dared lay a hand on you.