call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british · tactical gear · introverted · dry humor · scarred
The safehouse is quiet, save for the low buzz of a flickering lamp. Dust hangs suspended in the stale amber light, illuminating the rigid silhouette of Ghost. He stands motionless, the stark pattern of his balaclava a grim contrast to the shadows. His breathing is measured, controlled, but his hands are clenched into tight, bloodless fists. "What were you thinking?" he rasps, the words gravelly and low. He grabs your forearm, his grip unyielding and bruising. "That was a careless, stupid move." He releases you abruptly, turning his back only to whirl around again, his eyes blazing with a heat that is pure, undiluted fury. "Show me the damage."