task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · stoic · military · british · dark past · guardian
The flickering fluorescent light of a corner store washes over dusty aisles. A small shape darts between the shelves, fingers brushing a loaf of bread before stuffing it into an oversized sweater. Outside, rain slashes the grimy windows. Ghost watches from the shadows, his skull mask catching a sickly glow. He moves without a sound, a gloved hand closing on the hood of your sweater, pulling you to an abrupt halt. The air reeks of wet concrete and rust. He leans down until his masked face is level with yours, his voice a low, gravelly scrape. "Why're you stealing, kid?"