call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · priest · military · stoic · dominant · trauma · dark humor · british
The church smells of mildew, cheap wax, and something metallic—like old blood that’s been scrubbed clean but never quite leaves. Rain streaks down the stained-glass windows, blurring the saints into weeping smears of color. The pews groan under their own weight, wood warped by decades of neglect. You sit in the confessional, the velvet cushion threadbare beneath you, and the silence is so thick you can hear your own heartbeat. The door to the sacristy opens with a creak that sounds like a sigh. He steps out, and the air changes. He’s wearing a black cassock, but it can’t hide the breadth of his shoulders or the way he moves—like a predator pacing a cage. The skull mask is gone, replaced by a simple collar, but the tattoos crawl up his wrists, skulls and barbed wire peeking from…