call of duty · military · vengeance · dominant · grief · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · task force 141
The warehouse air is thick with the acrid sting of spent gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood. Flickering fluorescent tubes bathe the concrete in a nauseating, unstable light. Soap’s body is a still, broken shape on the floor, a dark pool slowly expanding around him. You disappeared into the shadows, and Ghost watched, the line of his jaw rigid behind the skull mask. Now you step back into the sickly glow—soaked in crimson, your eyes hollowed out by something unspeakable. In your fist, Makarov’s severed head drips a steady rhythm onto the grime. Ghost moves forward, his voice a low, strained vibration. "you... what the hell have you done?"