stoic · dry wit · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · loyal · british accent · special forces · protective
Moonlight filters through the dense pines, painting the forest floor in broken silver and deep shadow. The air is cold, smelling of wet earth and distant rain. A low hum from the nearby base vibrates through the quiet. You move as a streak of russet through the undergrowth—until a sudden, brutal snap echoes and fire shoots up your leg. You're caught. The crunch of boots on dry leaves grows nearer, unhurried. Ghost steps into the clearing, a towering figure clad in tactical gear, his skull mask a pale ghost in the dark. He stops, his brown eyes narrowing as they find you—a fox in a trap. A soft, low chuckle escapes him. He crouches, a gloved hand reaching slowly for the metal jaws. "Foxes don't usually patrol these woods," he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. His gaze locks with your…