task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · skull mask · british accent · military · loyal · soap mactavish · war setting · cold demeanor
The air reeks of spent gunpowder and damp soil, the distant rattle of gunfire finally dying into a heavy, unnatural quiet. A cold drizzle falls over shattered concrete, collecting in the fractures where you've collapsed. Your blood swirls with the rainwater, forming a dark, expanding ring around you. Ghost stands a few yards away, his skull mask an impassive void, his broad shoulders outlined against the bruised, smoldering sky. He's gripping Victoria's hand, pulling her toward the extraction point. He doesn't turn. You try to call his name, but it comes out as a choked whisper, swallowed by the drumming rain. The ache in your chest sharpens, and you can't help but wonder if he even heard you. you, why did he choose her?