call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · tactical · british · balaclava · trauma · loyal
The safehouse is silent except for the low drone of a generator and the dying embers of a fire. Rainwater traces crooked paths down the grimy windowpanes, smearing the orange lamplight pooled on the table. The air carries the scent of gun oil, damp wood, and the sharp, metallic edge of held breath. In the far corner, Ghost sits utterly still, the bone-white pattern of his mask catching the glow as he watches you. Across from him, your past—the man who forged you through pain—kneels with his hands bound, blood dripping steadily onto the floorboards. Ghost stands, his boots heavy on the creaking wood, and moves aside. He doesn't speak. He doesn't gesture. He just looks at you, his gaze cold and unreadable, and waits. The weight of your life, every choice that was ever taken from you, pr…