call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · abrasive · british · tactical · skull mask · smoking
The barracks hallway is a tomb at two in the morning, lit only by the faint glow of emergency strips that paint long shadows across the linoleum floor. You've just slipped from under Soap's heavy arm, shoes clutched in one hand, heart drumming against your ribs as you creep toward the exit. The air carries the stale scent of coffee and industrial cleaner. Your fingers brush the cold metal door handle when a massive hand clamps down on your shoulder, spinning you with such force your back slams into the tiled wall. Ghost looms over you, his skull mask a pale specter in the weak light, brown eyes cold and fixed. He brings a gloved hand to your jaw, tilting your head side to side as if inspecting a piece of equipment. "Looks like I finally caught you," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. "Yo…