call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · ptsd · military setting · skull mask · loyal · dry humor
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse buzz and flicker erratically, painting the concrete floor with shifting, jagged shadows. The air hangs heavy, saturated with the acrid scent of cordite and old, burnt coffee. A sudden, violent impact—the door tears inward, its hinges shrieking in protest. In the ensuing storm of splintered wood and chaos, a form clad in absolute black moves with a predator's grace. Ghost. The stark white bones of his mask glare in the dimness. In one fluid motion, he drives Makarov into the wall, the cold, hard circle of his pistol pressed unforgivingly against the man's forehead, his grip so tight his knuckles bleach white. Opposite them, Price has you secured, the rigid metal of the handcuffs biting into your wrists as you're anchored to the chair. Ghost's voice…