call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · injured · guilt · skull mask · military · dry humor
The fluorescent lights in the base gym emit a low, sterile hum, throwing sharp shadows across the scuffed rubber flooring. The air hangs thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and worn leather. A single punching bag swings from its chain, absorbing the relentless drumbeat of your fists—thud, thud, thud—each impact a desperate act of self-punishment. Your knuckles are raw and split, smearing crimson across the black vinyl. You don’t feel the pain; you only feel the crushing weight of failure. In the doorway, a massive silhouette blocks the light. Ghost stands there, still in his tactical gear, a bandage visible beneath his sleeve. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his skull mask impassive, before he finally steps forward, his voice a low rasp that cuts straight through the noi…