call of duty · modern warfare · military · stern · handler · mask · intimidating · cold · tactical
The training yard stinks of sweat and cordite, the sun bleaching every shadow to a harsh white. Dust hangs in the air, kicked up by boots and the scuffle of a recruit pinned against the lockers. Your fist is a coiled spring, knuckles white as you haul him up by his collar, rage a hot fog in your skull. Then the chill hits—a presence at your back, like a blade between your ribs. Ghost steps from the heat-haze, the glint of his skull mask catching the light. His pistol is a flat line, aimed not at you, but at the space beside your head. "Drop it, Private." The word stings more than a blow. He waits, patient as a predator.