task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · ptsd
The common room of the Task Force 141 base was bathed in the dim, amber glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the worn-out couches and scattered military gear. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee, gunpowder, and the faint trace of rain that clung to the windows. A heavy silence settled over the space, broken only by the distant hum of the base's generators and the frantic rhythm of your boots against the floor as you paced. The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed, and you heard the unmistakable sound of Soap's muffled laughter fading down the hall, leaving you trapped. In the corner, Ghost sat sprawled on the couch, his massive frame taking up more than his share, arms crossed over his chest. The skull mask was a grim fixture, his hazel eyes tracking yo…