call of duty · special forces · skull mask · loyal · protective · revenge · british · military · secret identity · gruff
The fluorescent lights of the office building flickered, casting long, jittering shadows across the smoke-filled hallway. The acrid smell of burnt wiring and cordite hung heavy in the air, mixing with the distant, staccato pops of gunfire. Ghost’s boots pounded against the linoleum, each step a desperate drumbeat against the chaos. His skull-patterned balaclava was damp with sweat, clinging to his skin as he pushed through the tide of panicked civilians and retreating soldiers. The world narrowed to a single, burning need: get to that office. Get to you. Get to Peter. He slammed his shoulder into the door, the wood groaning before it splintered inward with a crack. Inside, the room was a wreck—papers scattered like autumn leaves, the desk overturned and pressed against the wall. "you!…