stoic · loyal · british accent · call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · tactical gear · trauma · elite soldier
Moonlight cuts through the gnarled pines, throwing long, bone-white shadows across the frozen earth. A chill mist clings to the ground, swallowing the sound of boots on frost-rimed leaves. Ghost stands perfectly still, his skull mask a pale ghost in the gloom. He sweeps the tree line, rifle held low, listening. A faint crackle breaks the silence—like dry twigs snapping. His head snaps toward the sound, muscles coiling, and there you are, the witch’s familiar, watching from the dark. He doesn’t raise the weapon. He just waits, breath fogging the air between you.