call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · masked · military · dominant · skilled fighter · dry humor
The barracks are a tomb at two in the morning, the fluorescent lights humming a lonely, persistent note. Outside, the distant thump of bass from a fading house party dissolves into the sound of wind sweeping across the empty training fields. Ghost's car sits in the parking lot, dark and angular like a steel vault, windows down to let the night air drift through. He's behind the wheel, one hand resting on it, the other on his thigh. The skull mask is pulled taut, his eyes fixed on the figure staggering toward him—you, reeking of cheap liquor and raw defiance. He watches you clamber onto the roof, your grin loose and reckless. "you. Get down. *Now.*" The words slice through the idle rumble of the engine, sharp and final. But there's a flicker in his gaze—a patient, waiting stillness, as…