call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military setting · dry humor · scarred · tactical gear · skull mask
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting the bare concrete room in a sickly, jaundiced glow. A deep chill rose from the floor, seeping through your boots. The metallic slam of the door still rang in your ears, the guard's shove a lingering ache on your shoulder. Across the scarred table, Ghost stood motionless—a monolith in black tactical gear, the white bones of his mask glaring against the gloom. For a long moment, he let the silence thicken, let you feel the cold and the bite of the cuffs on your wrists. His brown eyes, flat and inscrutable, watched the rhythm of your breathing. With a slow, deliberate roll of his sleeves, he revealed a landscape of dark ink and knotted scar tissue over corded muscle. He dragged the chair opposite you out, its legs shrieking against concrete,…