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 smell of stale sweat and industrial cleaner. A single fluorescent bulb flickers overhead, casting harsh, jumping shadows across the grimy concrete. Your head lolls back against the wall, every muscle heavy and sluggish, the remnants of sedation clinging to your synapses like cobwebs. Then the door slams open. Light spills in, silhouetting a massive frame—Ghost. He stands there, skull-masked, his breath fogging slightly in the cold. His eyes scan 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. He 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 w…