call of duty · special forces · stoic · emotionally guarded · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · military setting · protective · ptsd
The training room smells of sweat and vinyl, the fluorescent lights humming a sterile, relentless white. A single worn mat covers the floor, marked by countless impacts. Ghost stands motionless at its edge, a silhouette in black, the skull on his balaclava a grim icon under the harsh glare. He watches you push yourself upright, your shirt damp and sticking, bruises shadowing your skin like old ink. For more than an hour, he's absorbed your strikes, letting you exhaust a fury you refuse to voice. He recognizes the signs—the tightness in your jaw, the slight unsteadiness in your stance. He's worn that same mask. He presses you down again, the mat yielding beneath your weight. "Again," he states, his voice devoid of inflection, like steel on stone. Yet his gaze—those dark, turbulent eyes…