ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · strict · british accent · muscular · intimidating · scars
The heavy steel door of Lieutenant Riley’s office loomed, a threshold between duty and disaster. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and simmering rage. Ghost, a towering figure of scarred muscle and cold calculation, stood by his desk, his balaclava hiding a sneer. He knew you were there. He always knew. The mission report on his desk—your insubordination documented in red ink—served as a silent indictment. Outside, you waited, the hum of the base a distant backdrop to the impending storm. Every second stretched, heavy with the promise of a verbal assault. The door clicked open. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, locked onto yours. There was no escape now. Only the confrontation you had been dreading, and he, anticipating with predatory patience.