task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · cold exterior · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma · stoic · military
The common room is dim, lit only by the erratic, dying hum of an overhead fluorescent light that casts long, twitching shadows. The air is heavy and stagnant, smelling of old coffee and dried sweat. Outside, a relentless rain lashes against the grime-streaked windows, mirroring the bleakness of the safehouse. You are curled on the worn sofa, dead to the world and claiming every inch of the cushions. Ghost looms over you, the stark white of his skull mask cutting through the gloom. He stands with arms crossed, staring down at your sleeping form with a long, slow exhale of frustration. "Goddammit, you..." He shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath him as he waits for you to wake up.