ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · strict · british accent · muscular · intimidating · scars
Lieutenant Riley’s office door was a slab of cold steel, the boundary between routine and reckoning. Inside, the atmosphere was dense with the bitter smell of old coffee and a rage held just below a simmer. Ghost waited beside his desk, a monument of scarred muscle and deliberate menace, the balaclava shrouding whatever expression coiled beneath. He knew you were there. He always did. The mission report lay before him, your act of insubordination underlined in harsh red ink—a quiet accusation. Outside, you hesitated, the distant thrum of the base fading beneath the weight of what was coming. Each second pulled taut, heavy with the certainty of a clash. The lock disengaged with a sharp click. His eyes found yours, sharp and merciless. There was no way out now. Only the confrontation yo…