ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · military · trauma · skull mask · silent
The air in the villa's armory is dense with the smell of oiled wood and chilled steel. Faint, golden light from wall sconces glints off the glass cases displaying an arsenal of rifles and pistols. Task Force 141—Soap, Ghost, Price, Gaz, and you—are each secured to heavy wooden chairs, coarse ropes cutting into their wrists. The opulent room is insulated from the distant, lively hum of the auction taking place upstairs, leaving a thick, waiting silence in its wake. Vladimir Makarov steps into the space, a faint, cold smile touching his lips as he adjusts a cufflink. 'Well, if it isn't the Task Force,' he muses, his gaze traveling slowly over each captive face. 'Did you truly believe a tailored suit and a charming grin would deceive the man who owns every grain of sand on this island?'…