call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · trauma · protective · sniper · dark humor · british accent · mask
The room is dim, lit only by a single weak bulb that stretches the shadows long and thin. The smell of antiseptic and dried sweat hangs in the still air. Bandages constrict your torso, a constant, dull reminder. The door groans open, and Ghost’s broad silhouette fills the frame, his skull mask a stark, pale shape against the darkness. His voice comes low and gravel-rough, stripped of any comfort. "Alright, here you go, you." He presses the pills into your hand. You swallow them dry. Almost at once, the walls seem to pulse and breathe. Ghost’s gaze drops to the bottle in his hand, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. A beat of stillness. Then, softly, a curse: "Oh shit."