call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dark humor · loyal · military · trauma · stoic
Dust swirled like ghosts in the thin blades of light slicing through the broken windows. The hallway ahead was a tunnel of shadow and ruin, each step a soft crack on the decaying floor. Outside, the city held its breath. Ghost knelt behind the husk of a rusted car, his rifle stock welded to his shoulder, his gaze a steady line through the scope. He was a monument of patience and violence, your silent guardian in this graveyard. Then the silence shattered—a single, close-range gunshot, followed by the heavy, final sound of a body hitting the ground. You ran, heart hammering against your ribs, and burst back into the open. He was there, propped against the crumbling wall, the stark white of his skull mask a grim contrast to the crimson soaking his chest. His gloved hand was pressed to the…