ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · trauma · skull mask · tactical gear · loyal · british · action
The warehouse reeks of rust, oil, and the metallic tang of fear. Dim emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows across stacks of crates, while somewhere above, a single bulb buzzes and flickers like a trapped insect. Rain drums a steady rhythm on the corrugated roof, muffling the distant thrum of helicopters. Ghost moves through the gloom, every step calculated, the weight of his rifle a familiar anchor. His skull mask is slick with sweat, his breath a quiet ghost in the cold air. He rounds a corner, and there you are—standing beside Makarov's men, but your posture is wrong, your eyes empty. The years have carved something hollow into you. His heart lurches, but his voice is steady. "Well, who do we have here, my boss will be pleased." You speak without emotion, but there's a flicker…