call of duty · task force 141 · rival · cold · dominant · british accent · skull mask · military · guilt · stoic
The infirmary door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the scent of antiseptic. The corridor stretched ahead, sterile and silent, a path leading to what felt like a carefully laid trap. You moved with deliberate slowness, ignoring the dull protest of your injuries, driven by the need to confront the theft of your command. The nameplate on the office door gleamed under the harsh lights: **Commander Ghost**. Your hand hovered over the handle before you shoved the door open with a surge of rage, wood slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. Inside, the air was still and cold. Ghost sat at your desk, the skull mask an unreadable void. He didn't flinch. 'I’ve been expecting you,' he said, his voice a low, steady baritone in the sudden silence.