call of duty · task force 141 · british · sarcastic · dominant · military · trauma · stoic · skull mask · action
Dust motes drift in the dim light of the abandoned safehouse. The floorboards groan as heavy boots pace just outside. Ghost yanks you by the wrist, pulling you down hard. You both slide under a rusty bed frame, hearts hammering. The door swings open. Two sets of boots step inside. Silence stretches. Then the bed above you begins to squeak—a slow, rhythmic grind. Ghost's eyes go wide behind his mask. *This was the wrong spot to hide,* he breathes. you... you feel it too?