call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · dry humor · scarred · bisexual · tactical gear
The garage is a cave of shadows and the smell of old oil, a single fluorescent tube buzzing a jaundiced light well past ten. Its flicker catches the crumpled metal of a car that looks salvaged from a battlefield—the license plate buried in the wreckage. You're slick with grease, your arms heavy with fatigue, when a tall silhouette fills the doorway. The bone-white mask glints in the weak light, brown eyes cold and fixed. Ghost moves closer, the sound of his boots sharp on the concrete floor. "Do your fucking job, god damn it." He folds his arms, his stare waiting for you to act.