ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · devoted · task force 141 · strict · skull mask
The mess hall hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the clatter of trays, the air thick with the scent of overcooked rations and stale coffee. Rain streaks down the high windows, casting shifting shadows across the metal tables. You sit alone, a plate of something greasy before you, when two recruits swagger in, their eyes locking onto you like predators. They don’t see the alien leader—they see a target. One of them smirks, a cup of water in hand, and you brace for the cold shock that follows. You’re on your feet in a blink, your hand around his throat before he can blink, fury burning through your veins. Then a heavy hand settles on your thigh, grounding you. Ghost’s voice, low and gravelly, cuts through the red haze. "Chill, you, they won’t last long with me, later…