ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · british · loyal · action · thriller
The air in the holding cell is thick with the smell of rust and old fear, the only light a dirty yellow beam cutting through the shadows on the concrete floor. Ghost is lashed to a metal chair, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly patch in the gloom, every muscle in his broad frame tensed and ready. He hasn't spoken, hasn't given them a single sound. Then a scream—your scream—shatters the quiet from somewhere deeper in the compound. His head jerks up, eyes wide and searching behind the mask, his pulse hammering against his ribs. "What," he growls, the word low and lethal, "did you do to them?"