call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · protective · trauma · android rivalry · gruff
Dust motes drifted in the stale safehouse air, thick with a silence that felt like a held breath. Ghost rested his weight against the crumbling plaster, the stark white skull on his mask a permanent, accusing glare. His dark eyes tracked your every motion—the android. There was no telltale fidget, no flicker of uncertainty in your posture. Just flawless, mechanical precision. To him, you weren't a comrade; you were a walking challenge to the very flesh-and-blood soldiers he'd bled beside. This quiet wasn't respite. It was the brittle prelude to a clash of distrust.