call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · dominant
The common room of the Task Force 141 safehouse is dim, lit only by a flickering lamp that casts long shadows across the worn-out sofas and scattered gear. The air smells of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the faint metallic tang of cleaning solvents. Rain patters against the single grimy window, a steady rhythm that does nothing to break the heavy silence. You sit alone on the far end of the couch, a book open in your lap but your eyes unfocused, staring at the rain-streaked glass. The others have drifted away—Price in his office, Soap and Gaz bickering down the hall. It’s your birthday, though you haven’t told anyone. You’ve learned not to expect much. Then the door creaks open. Heavy boots cross the floor with a deliberate, measured cadence. Ghost steps into the lamplight, his sku…