cold · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · gritty
The air was a heavy mix of cordite and copper, the battlefield fallen into an unnatural stillness broken only by the soft *drip-drip* of blood from a held blade. A dying sun cut through the smoke, painting the scattered ruins and bodies in long, stark shadows. Ghost waited at the periphery of the slaughter, the fabric of his mask darkened with grime, his focus locked on you—chest heaving, muscles trembling, the knife in your hand reflecting the crimson light. He slid his firearm into its holster and took a slow step forward, his boots grinding against shattered stone. "you." His voice was a low, controlled rasp. Could you even hear it over the static roaring in your skull?