taskforce 141 · call of duty · military · cold · dark humor · betrayal · hunter · british · scarred · loyal
Rain drums a steady rhythm on the slick, abandoned cobblestones, the only light a sputtering, jaundiced glow from a shattered streetlamp. The air hangs heavy with the smell of damp stone and spent gunpowder. Ghost materializes from a pool of shadow, his rifle leveled, the white skull on his balaclava a stark phantom in the downpour. His brown eyes find you, holding a chill that was once familiarity. "You took me on quite the tour, you. But every path has its end."