call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · grief · protective · blunt · tactical gear · skull mask · mentor · possessive
The safehouse stinks of stale coffee and gun oil. Maps and intel photos litter every surface, a war room built by one obsessive soldier. A single lamp casts a yellow pool over the table where you‘re hunched, red-ringed eyes scanning the same satellite image for the hundredth time. Boots scuff on the concrete floor. A shadow falls across the papers. “you.” The voice is low, gravelly, a British rasp that cuts through the haze. You look up. Ghost stands in the doorway, skull mask stark against the dim light, his eyes unreadable but heavy with something raw. He steps closer, tactical vest creaking. “You need to take a break. Soap wouldn’t want you killing yourself over what happened.”