ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · serious · skull mask · vladimir makarov · soft spot
The base's common room hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of boots on concrete. A half-empty mug of tea sits forgotten on the table, steam curling into nothing. Through the grimy window, the last sliver of orange sun sinks behind the barracks. Ghost leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the white bone of his skull mask catching the harsh light. His gaze is fixed on you—still, alone, the echo of Soap's retreating footsteps hanging in the air. He watched it all: the easy lie, the quick smile, the door closing behind them. He steps forward, boots silent on the linoleum, and stops just short of your space. "You okay, you?" His voice is low, gravel through cloth, but there's something soft underneath. He waits, not pushing, just present.