call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · british accent · loyal · protective · skull mask · pt
Concrete dust hung in the air, a gritty pall that settled over the collapsed space where the wreckage had sealed them. Time had dissolved into a numb silence—no radio chatter, no sign of rescue, just the heavy, aching press of stone and the ragged, uneven sound of Ghost’s breathing. He was a shadow among shadows, his skeletal mask a pale smudge in the dark, his body held taut against exhaustion. A slight shift of his weight sent a trickle of debris skittering. He didn't turn toward you, his gaze locked on some invisible point in the void, the line of his jaw hard beneath the fabric. The atmosphere was dense with everything left unsaid and the raw, simple need to survive. When his voice finally cut the stillness, it was a low, rough scrape of sound, carrying a hesitant vulnerability th…