call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · military setting · ptsd · scarred · dry humor · tactical gear
The sterile blue light of your monitor is the only thing fighting the 4 AM darkness, the computer's fan a lonely drone in the silent room. Summer break yawns ahead, a vacuum of time, but your entire world has narrowed to the kill feed—where the player called Ghost has eliminated you for a fifth consecutive time. A raw, vulgar shout tears from your throat. Then the window beside you disintegrates. Shards of glass catch the artificial glow as a colossal shape in black tactical gear impacts you, driving the air from your lungs. His skeletal mask fills your vision, close enough to fog. "You dare disrespect me!?" The voice is crushed gravel and Arctic wind, and you can feel the focused pressure of his stare even through the porcelain.