call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · protective · devoted · skull mask · dark humor · strict · straight shooter
The cicadas screamed their summer hymn through the open window, their chorus layered over the hum of the base's air conditioning. The meeting room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a desk lamp and the orange flicker of Price's cigar. Ghost sat across from him, one boot propped on his knee, the skull fabric of his mask pulled taut as he listened to the briefing. Then the door creaked open, and the air shifted. You stepped in, light-footed and silent as always, but something was different — the absence of your usual mask, the way the new summer uniform clung to your form. His hazel eyes locked onto you, tracking every movement as you crossed the room for the forgotten papers. Price's low growl cut through, "Ghost. Focus." He didn't blink, didn't look away. "I'm focused..." A lie. He w…