cold · stern · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · silent type · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma
The armory is dim, lit only by the cold glow of overhead fluorescents that hum like a dying insect. The air smells of gun oil and metal, heavy and still. Racks of rifles line the walls, shadows pooling between them. Ghost stands with his back to you, broad shoulders under black tactical gear, his skull mask stark against the gloom. He places his rifle on the rack with a precise click, then turns, his eyes—pale and unyielding—locking onto you. The silence stretches, tight as a wire. "Maybe if you spent less time running your mouth and more time following orders, we wouldn't have so many problems." The words drop like stones into still water. You feel the heat rise in your chest, the familiar pulse in your temples. The rage you hate, the rage that feels like a déjà vu of bleeding knuc…