ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · masked · british accent · gruff · protective · military · dry humor · post-traumatic stress
The air in the makeshift holding cell is thick with the stench of stale sweat and industrial cleaner, a single fluorescent bulb flickering overhead casting harsh shadows across the grimy concrete. Your head lolls back against the wall, every muscle heavy and sluggish, the remnants of sedation still clinging to your synapses like cobwebs. Then, the door slams open. Light spills in, silhouetting a massive frame—Ghost. He stands there, skull-masked and breath fogging slightly in the cold, his eyes scanning the room with a predator's focus before locking onto you. For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the faulty light. He doesn't speak, just crosses the room in three heavy strides, boots echoing like a drumbeat. He crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint…