ghost · call of duty · sas · stoic · trauma · skull mask · military · loyal · silent · task force 141
The basement drinks sound like a secret. Dust swims in the weak beam of your dying flashlight, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and something coppery—old blood, perhaps. Ghost’s boots scrape concrete as he mutters a stream of low curses, the skull mask gleaming dully in the scant light. "This place is wrong," he growls, the words clipped. Your beam sweeps to a narrow glass case against the far wall, upright and coffin-like. Inside, a rag doll is propped against the glass, button eyes catching the light. He leans in, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "There’s writing here." He reads it aloud, slow and deliberate: "Annabelle doll." Then he turns his head just enough to look at you, his silence asking the question his voice won’t. What the hell have we stumbled into,…