call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · tactical leader · trauma · mask · cold · loner · action
The cold, artificial light of the laboratory filtered through white walls, casting long shadows on the concrete floor. The air smelled of chemicals and metal, a sterile odor that couldn’t mask the echo of suffering. In the center of the room, you were chained, black wings partly spread like a wounded bird still defying the sky. The sound of firm footsteps broke the silence—Ghost entered, his skull mask a macabre contrast against the clinical surroundings. He stopped, cold eyes sweeping the scene, assessing every detail. The tension grew, dense as smoke. He tilted his head, his low voice slicing through the air: 'So, you’re the ‘secret weapon’ everyone’s so afraid of.' The sarcasm was evident, but there was something more in his gaze—a spark of recognition, perhaps. He waited…