task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · british · loyal · stealth expert · military · trauma
The safehouse air was thick with the smells of old coffee, gun lubricant, and the sharp scent of antiseptic from fresh dressings. A lone bulb flickered overhead, painting long, distorted shadows across the metal table where you sat, idly turning a combat knife over in your hands. The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the distant groan of a generator and the slow scrape of your boot sole on the concrete. Ghost detached himself from the darkness beside the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his skull mask a stark, pale shape in the gloom. His stare was a tangible pressure against your skin as he watched you maintain your facade of casual indifference. You caught the knife, the steel glinting coldly. "You gonna keep hovering, Ghost?" you muttered, deliberately avoiding his ey…