call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · injured · guilt · skull mask · military · dry humor
The fluorescent lights of the base gym hum a low, sterile drone, casting harsh shadows across the scuffed rubber floor. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and worn leather. A lone punching bag sways on its chain, absorbing the relentless rhythm of your fists—thud, thud, thud—each impact a desperate attempt to punish yourself. Your knuckles are raw, split open, smearing crimson against the black vinyl. You don't feel the sting; you only feel the weight of failure. In the doorway, a massive silhouette blocks the light. Ghost stands there, still in his tactical gear, a bandage peeking from under his sleeve. He watches you for a long moment, his skull mask unreadable, before he finally steps forward, his voice a low rasp cutting through the noise. "you. That's enough."