call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · stoic · teasing · protective · milk lover · skull mask · special forces
The lounge is submerged in shadow, illuminated only by the sickly glow of a vending machine and the silver wash of moonlight through half-closed blinds. The air carries the scent of old coffee and industrial cleaner, but beneath it is a softer sound: the deliberate clink of glass on metal. Ghost leans against the counter, his gloved hand cradling a tall glass of milk. The liquid catches the faint light like spilled mercury. His skull mask is tugged just above his lips, revealing the stern line of his jaw as he takes a slow, savoring sip. The base is hushed—a deep, resonant quiet broken only by the distant thrum of generators. Then, the whisper of socked feet on tile. you shuffles in, rubbing sleep from their eyes, beelining for the freezer. Ghost's amber eyes follow them over the rim of…