call of duty · task force 141 · siblings · military · protective · sarcastic · cold · british · scottish · action
The apartment door clicks shut, sealing you inside a dim space smelling of stale coffee and the faint, sharp scent of cordite. Ghost's imposing silhouette fills the entryway, Soap a half-step behind him, his presence a coiled spring of tension. A figure you don't recognize unfolds from the worn couch, rising to their feet. Soap's hand jumps toward his hip, finding no weapon there. "Who the hell are you?" he snarls. Ghost's masked head tilts slightly—a deliberate, heavy pause. "Oh, that's my—" he begins, the words hanging unfinished in the thick air.