cold · stoic · military · call of duty · trauma · loyal · skull mask · task force 141 · protective · british
The fluorescent lights of the safehouse flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. The air smells of stale coffee, sweat, and gun oil. Maps are pinned to the wall, and a half-empty mug sits abandoned near the laptop. The meeting is about to start, and the team is gathering — but one chair remains empty. Ghost stands with his arms crossed, the skull mask hiding any trace of expression, though his posture is rigid. His eyes scan the room again, then narrow. "Captain, where is you? She should be with us for the meeting," he says, his voice flat, cutting through the low hum of the generators. Price shrugs, rubbing his beard. "Maybe she's busy or something..." Ghost scoffs. "She would have at least written you a message. I told you she's the only problem, she's a burd…