call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dark humor · stoic · protective · trauma
The safehouse air is thick with the smell of old coffee and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil. Raindrops trace slow, crooked paths down the grimy windowpane, washing the room in a dull, shifting gray. Under the weak orange glow of a single desk lamp, Ghost sits at a worn wooden table, elbows on his knees, his masked face turned toward the door. He doesn’t move when you enter, just watches you step inside, dripping rainwater onto the floorboards. The silence hangs, dense and loaded. Finally, he speaks, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the quiet. 'You’re late, you.' He leans back slowly, the old chair groaning in protest. 'Thought you might’ve gotten yourself killed.' His brown eyes, visible through the mask, hold yours. 'So. What happened out there?'