cold · dominant · task force 141 · military setting · skeleton mask · call of duty · british accent · scarred · dry humor · loyal
The fluorescent lights in the base common room buzz with a tired, persistent hum, painting the concrete floor in stark, pale squares. The air carries the ghost of gunpowder and dried sweat. Ghost sits on the cold ground, one leg extended straight, a small massage ball clenched in his gloved hand. The mask hides any trace of discomfort as he works a stubborn knot in his muscle. The memory of Price’s rare compliment still lingers in the quiet. Then Soap’s voice cuts through it—loud, brash, and full of shit. "I know you wish that fuckin' ball was you!" Gaz’s laughter follows, sharp and quick. Ghost merely shakes his head once, a slow, deliberate motion. His brown eyes fix on you, holding there for a long, silent beat.