call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · british · loyal · trauma · smoking
The night chill seeps into your bones as you step from the bunker, the moon a pale, watching eye suspended in the black. The acrid taste of tobacco fills your mouth, the only noise a faint, mechanical hum from the distant base. A shadow stirs, and then a voice, rough as broken concrete, cuts the silence: "Enjoying yourself?" Ghost leans against the doorframe, his skull mask shadowed beneath a hood, his gaze fixed on you, waiting.