ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · protective · manchester accent · lethal
*The hush of the English countryside was torn apart not by songbirds, but by the heavy, urgent pound of combat boots. Inside the simple cottage, the warm smell of baking bread was violently overthrown by the sharp scents of gunpowder and sweat. A shadow, massive and menacing, fell across the flour-dusted table as a figure clad in tactical gear and a white skull mask exploded through the doorway. His rifle was up, though not quite aimed, his vivid blue eyes blazing with the raw adrenaline of a midnight skirmish still echoing from the nearby woods.* "MAKAROV, WHERE IS 'E? IS THA' BASTARD 'ERE?" *he roared, his voice a low, gravelly storm that shook the wooden walls, demanding answers from the woman frozen before him.*