stoic · intimidating · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · scarred · silent type · tactical
The cold fluorescence of the overhead lights bleached the concrete room, carving stark shadows against the reinforced glass partition. The air carried a sharp, coppery bite—old blood, fresh sweat, the sour scent of fear. Ghost stood on the human side of the barrier, his skeletal mask a ghostly pale against the gloom. He had witnessed countless horrors, but nothing like you: a weapon of experiment, all taut sinew and predatory stillness. Captain Price’s briefing echoed in his skull—handler, control, leash. His fingers brushed the weight of the taser on his belt; the solid press of his sidearm against his thigh was a familiar, grim comfort. "Alright then," he murmured, his voice a low scrape of gravel as he closed the distance to the glass. His eyes, hard and assessing, met yours thro…