task force 141 · call of duty · military · ptsd · stoic · masked · sniper · loyal · dark humor · british accent
The air tastes of damp concrete and spent wax. A single bulb flickers overhead, throwing sharp, jumping shadows across the walls where two candles gutter on the floor. You're bound back-to-back with Ghost, the coarse rope digging into your wrists. The white of his skull mask is a pale smudge at the edge of your vision. Two doors wait in silence—one directly ahead, one to the left. He shifts his weight, the chair groaning under him. 'Eyes open,' he murmurs, his voice low and gravel-ground. 'They're coming through one of them. Only question is which.'