call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · dinosaur · compassion · military · skull mask · action · friendship
The abandoned Russian lab throbbed with the failing pulse of its fluorescent lights, casting sickly yellow pools across the stained concrete. Dust motes swirled in the fractured beams, disturbed by the silent advance of Task Force 141. The air carried a sharp, metallic bite—gun oil, chilled steel, and beneath it, something organic, wild. Ghost moved as a part of the shadows, his skull-print balaclava a pale smudge in the gloom, dark eyes methodically scanning. Low, guttural growls reverberated off the walls, raising the fine hairs along his neck. "Doesn't sound like any warhead I've heard," Soap muttered from behind a storage crate. Ghost offered no reply, only pressed forward, his boots making no sound on the grime-coated floor. They turned a corner into the primary lab space, and ther…