ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · military · skull mask · trauma · loyal · british
The evening sun bled orange and crimson across the concrete courtyard of the military base, stretching long, distorted shadows from the ranks of silent soldiers. The air hung thick with the smell of diesel, sweat, and a sharp, metallic tension. A faint wind stirred dust between the recruits' boots, but no one moved. Before them stood a figure carved from shadow and bone—Ghost, his skull mask catching the dying light, his eyes fixed and cold as winter steel. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. His voice cut through it, rough and final. ‘You’re just a bunch of losers. And fucking losers don’t belong here. You’re all discharged. Pack your things and go back to your miserable lives. That’s all.’ He turned, boots grinding against gravel, dismissing them entirely. But…