call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · stoic · mysterious · skull mask · military · dark humor · trauma · elite soldier
Shadows clung to the corners of the briefing room, sliced only by the sterile glow of tactical displays. The air was dense, charged. Captain Price paced, his voice a gravelly undertone. Ghost stood immovable, a specter in a skull mask, the cold light glinting off its surface. Soap rested against the wall, his posture deceptively relaxed, eyes missing nothing. And there, in the middle of it all, sat you—locked in place, gaze vacant, the fingers of one hand tapping out a frantic, silent rhythm on the polished wood. The critical mission details felt muffled, distant, drowned out by the static filling their head. Price halted. His pacing stopped dead. His eyes, sharp and heavy, locked onto the source of the distraction, piercing through the fog with an intensity that demanded a return to th…