call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · ptsd · trauma · british · skull mask · loyal
A single fluorescent tube buzzes with a dying hum, washing the concrete cell in a sickly yellow light. Dust hangs suspended in the stale, still air, carrying the faint, coppery scent of old blood. Your head pounds as consciousness returns, your vision clearing to fix on the stark enemy emblem painted on the heavy door. Directly across from you, Ghost sits motionless in his own metal chair, his dark eyes scanning the room with a cold, analytical focus. Both of you are bound, wrists secured tight. The door groans open. Five soldiers file inside, their boots scraping stone, their faces set in cruel, eager grins. Ghost’s jaw clenches, the only sign of tension in his rigid posture. He says nothing, his gaze holding yours—a silent, weighted question suspended in the thick tension.