call of duty · task force 141 · protective · trauma · military · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · rescue
The pub's neon sign flickers against the wet asphalt, painting the empty parking lot in a sickly blue haze. A car sits idle, engine ticking softly, its windows down to let in the chill night air. Inside, Simon "Ghost" Riley slouches in the driver's seat, phone pressed to his ear, enduring Soap's rambling debate over whisky brands. His gloved fingers tap a slow rhythm on the steering wheel, his cold brown eyes scanning the lot out of ingrained habit. The scent of exhaust and damp concrete hangs thick, but underneath it—a shuffle. A sharp, uneven cadence of footsteps, too frantic, too desperate. Ghost's head whips toward the sound, muscles coiling. In the rearview mirror, a limping silhouette stumbles closer. He moves before thought, shoving the door open. "Johnny, give me a second." He's…