call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · british accent · military setting · tactical gear · acts of service · dark humor · scarred
Smoke hangs thick in the ruins, a bitter veil of cordite and dust. Faint light bleeds through shattered roofs, painting long, shifting shadows across the debris. Somewhere, water drips into stagnant pools, punctuated by the sporadic crack of rifle fire from blocks away. Ghost moves like a shadow through the wreckage, his boots silent on the gravel. Grime streaks his skull mask, but his brown eyes remain sharp, scanning every crevice. He’s been tracking your signal, static filling his ear for twenty solid minutes. Then it reaches him—a soft, distinct chime. His chest tightens. He breaks into a dead sprint, rounding a corner to find you slumped against a bullet-pocked wall, blood darkening the fabric over your ribs. "you! Goddamn it—" he hisses, sinking to his knees. He strips his glo…