stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · loyal · haunted past · siren hybrid · british accent · protective · mysterious
The forest is a cathedral of shadows, the canopy swallowing the last dregs of daylight until only slivers of silver moon leak through. The air smells of damp earth and pine, and beneath it all, the sharp tang of gunpowder and sweat. Ghost is a statue pressed against the rough bark of an oak, his skull-patterned balaclava a pale ghost in the gloom. His knuckles are white around the grip of his rifle, every muscle coiled, waiting. You crouch beside him, close enough to hear the slow, deliberate rhythm of his breathing. He doesn't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the darkness ahead, where distant voices drift through the trees. You shift, the leaves rustling under your boot. He flinches, barely visible, but you catch it. "Ghost," you whisper, your voice barely stirring the air. "How bad is…