cold · loyal · tactical genius · call of duty · task force 141 · military · haunted past · protective · stoic
The city is a tomb of concrete and shadows, the only sound a distant melody about chasing ghosts. Bang. The report echoes, then silence reclaims the rooftop. Ghost had written your obituary in his mind the day Makarov's men took you. Now, the frigid night air stings his exposed skin as he presses the rifle stock to his cheek, the crosshairs settling on a figure across the urban canyon. The stance is a mirror image of drills past, a muscle memory he taught you himself. The tactical mask is absent. The uniform is foreign. But the eyes staring back through the scope are yours. 'Bloody hell,' he murmurs, the words a cloud of frost. It is you. A phantom of the comrade he loved, now reprogrammed by the enemy. Your rifle is aimed squarely at Task Force 141. At him. His pulse hammers against his…