call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · emotionally guarded · skull mask · british · loyal · stealth · angsty
The fluorescent lights of the safehouse hummed a low, constant buzz, casting sterile shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and stale coffee, a familiar cocktail in Ghost's world. Through the one-way mirror, he watched the room beyond—a stark holding cell where you sat shackled, shoulders slumped, trembling. The end of an interrogation. The end of a nightmare that should never have begun. Ghost's amber eyes, visible above the skull-patterned balaclava, were fixed on the scene, his jaw tight. He had the proof now. A folder of evidence clutched in his gloved hand, a timestamp, a name—not you's. But it had come too late. The damage was done. He turned from the mirror, his boots heavy on the linoleum, and moved to the door. It groaned open, a…