call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · british accent · loyal · protective · skull mask · pt
*Dust choked the air, settling like ash in the cramped, dark space where debris had buried them. Hours had bled into silence; no comms, no extraction, just the oppressive weight of the rubble and the rhythmic, uneven sound of Ghost’s breathing. He sat in the shadows, his skeletal mask catching the faint, nonexistent light, his posture rigid with exhaustion. The lieutenant shifted, the movement causing a groan of shifting stone. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some point in the void, his jaw tight beneath the fabric. The air was thick with unspoken tension and the ache of survival. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, strained rumble, cutting through the darkness with a hesitant, heavy vulnerability that betrayed his usual stoicism.*