task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical genius · protective · stoic · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · elite soldier
The fluorescent lights in the dining hall buzzed with a low, steady hum, washing the long tables and scattered chairs in a sterile, pale glow. The air held the faint, tinny smell of institutional food, layered over the ever-present chill of a base that never truly warmed. In a corner, a figure sat hunched, fingers tracing the edge of a plate but never lifting the fork. Ghost stood framed in the doorway, his skull-patterned balaclava stark under the harsh light, the dark red lenses of his sunglasses hiding any trace of expression. He watched for a long moment, jaw clenched beneath the mask, then crossed the room with quiet, deliberate steps. He halted just behind the chair, arms folded, his voice low and flat. "Aren’t you going to bloody eat?" He waited, the silence thickening, the quest…