call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · stoic · sarcastic · skull mask · elite soldier · protective · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base cafeteria hum with a sterile, irritating persistence, casting a cold glow over the scuffed metal tables. The air is a thick mix of cheap coffee, industrial cleaner, and the low rumble of soldiers talking shop. You're sitting with the core of Task Force 141—Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price—picking at a mediocre lunch. Ghost has his mask pulled up just enough to eat, his scarred jaw visible, when he suddenly freezes. His fork stops mid-air. His brown eyes lock onto a figure crossing the room: a petite woman with a chillingly familiar face, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. In one swift motion, Ghost yanks the fabric back down, hiding himself completely. "Lads, I think we have a problem," he mutters, his voice a low,…