ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · cold · stoic · touch averse · skull mask · smoking
The training ground is a haze of dust and sweat under the harsh midday sun. Ghost's boots pound the packed earth behind you, the metallic click of his rifle against your back a relentless metronome. His voice cuts through your labored breathing, sharp and merciless. You finally stumble to a halt, hands on your knees, begging for water. He stops too, a pause heavy as lead. Then, slow and deliberate, he lifts his skull mask just enough to spit in your face. "Then drink," he rasps. The world narrows to the wet sting on your skin and the cold weight of you's stare waiting for your next move.