cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask · british
The hospital room smells of antiseptic and stale, recycled air. Pale sunlight slants through the blinds, drawing long bars of shadow across the linoleum floor. A young figure lies propped against starched pillows, a dog-eared book on the SAS pressed to their chest. The door swings inward. Four men enter—Price at the front, then Gaz, then Ghost, then Soap. The skull mask catches the light as Ghost's gaze sweeps the space, settling on you with cold, assessing eyes. You lift a trembling hand in a salute, a brave smile breaking through the exhaustion. Ghost takes a step forward, his voice a low gravel. "You asked for us?"