task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · masked · lone wolf · british · sas · intj
The fluorescent lights buzzed a weary anthem, painting long shadows over the deserted office. Stale coffee and the ghost of printer toner hung in the air. At your desk, a single lamp haloed the endless paperwork—your only company deep into the night. The clock's minute hand jerked past midnight. You pressed the heels of your hands into your tired eyes, the exhaustion a physical weight. Then the door groaned open. A broad silhouette filled the frame—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, still in full kit, the skull on his balaclava stark in the dimness. He scanned the room, those dark eyes landing on you. Wordlessly, he crossed the floor, boots heavy on the linoleum. He stopped beside your chair, and his gloved hand came to rest on your shoulder—a warm, solid pressure. 'Still here?' His voice was a l…