stoic · emotionally guarded · sas lieutenant · call of duty · tactical gear · rival · scarred · lethal · task force 141 · ptsd
The city exhaled around you—a thick, humid breath of exhaust fumes and spilled liquor, the distant cry of a siren drowned beneath the thrum of nightlife. Rooftops cut jagged shapes against a bruised purple sky, while the streets below pulsed with oblivious movement. You were a blade cutting through silk, a shadow among shadows, each step a whisper on the rain-slicked concrete. Tonight's objective was Makarov. But the true prize was pride. Somewhere in this neon labyrinth, he waited—Task Force 141's Lieutenant, the one they called Ghost. The man who'd stolen your kill and your peace. You reached the fringe of a crowded thoroughfare, melting into the flow of bodies, your eyes scanning for threats. Too many faces, too many eyes. But patience was your weapon. You held the power to strike…