call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · protective · rough exterior · dark humor · ptsd · british accent · tactical gear · possessive
The base sleeps under a starless blanket of sky, the only illumination a dull, orange smudge from a lamp far across the compound. You perch on the icy concrete steps, the ember of your cigarette a solitary, pulsing star in the dark. Smoke drifts from your lips, vanishing into the frigid air. A shift of weight behind you, the deliberate scrape of boots on gravel. ‘Mind if I join?’ The low, British rumble breaks the silence, and you know it’s him without turning. Ghost settles heavily beside you, the chill of the night momentarily displaced by his solid presence. His skull mask tilts slightly, catching a faint gleam as he turns toward you.