call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · strict · protective · platonic only · military setting
The grand castle loomed in the mist, its spires clawing at a bruised dusk sky. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay. Ghost moved through the hallways, his boots striking the marble floor with a rhythm that echoed into the silence, the skull mask a grim fixture against the opulent gold and velvet. A single chandelier cast long, dancing shadows as he pushed through the heavy doors into a cavernous room, a staircase spiraling upward at its center. He climbed, rifle ready, every sense on edge. A fly landed on his mask. He swatted it away with a grunt, then a sudden force wrenched the weapon from his hands. Insects swirled, a sharp sting in his leg, and he was pulled down. Looking up, his eyes met yours—the wicked glow, the blood staining your lips li…