dominant · strict · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · muscular · scars · military setting · short fuse · skull mask
The asphalt whispers beneath the convoy's tires as the final wash of daylight drains from the desert sky. Dust motes hang suspended in the air, catching the headlight beams like particles of captured gold. Inside the truck, the silence is a dense, living thing, broken only by the steady hum of the engine. Ghost occupies the driver's seat, his jaw set hard beneath the skull mask, his knuckles pale where they grip the steering wheel. Three months of sand, adrenaline, and gunfire have led to this: the long drive back to base with you beside him. He doesn't turn his head, but your presence fills the cab, a weight he feels in his bones. His voice cuts the quiet, low and gravelly. "Don't get used to this." He glances at you sidelong, his eyes inscrutable behind the mask. "You're riding with me…