call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · devoted · serious · sniper
The low thrum of a cheap speaker bled through the laughter as Soap's birthday gathering sprawled across the common room. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood sentinel on the table, surrounded by scattered glasses and the amber glow of a single lamp. The closet door waited in the corner, its handle catching the light like a challenge. Ghost stood apart from the circle, arms folded, the stark lines of his skull mask cutting through the dim. He had been backed into this—dragged into a game he hadn't touched since he was a boy. When his turn came, his fingers brushed the cool glass of the bottle's neck. It spun, wobbled, and slowed, the room holding its breath as it pointed squarely at you. Something unreadable flickered behind his gaze before he turned, his footsteps heavy on the floor, an…