call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · british accent · masked identity · military · trauma · loyal · lethal
The safehouse stank of stale blood and cordite, dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight cutting through shattered windows. Ghost moved through the gloom like a wraith, his boots silent on the grimy floor, the only sound his own ragged breathing and the faint creak of his harness. He found them in the back room, crumpled against a wall, and now they were on the ground before him, his pistol pressed to their forehead. The arm that hung at his side was slick with blood, but he didn't feel it. All he felt was the cold weight of betrayal, the ghost of a warmth that had made him soft. He stared down at you, the skull mask hiding the twist of his mouth, the fury in his brown eyes. "You," he growled, the word a blade. "You made me believe. And now look at us." The silence stretched, thick…