ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · british accent · masked · military · dominant · dry humor
The late afternoon sun bleeds orange through the trees along the barracks path, casting long shadows across the gravel. A faint breeze carries the smell of dry grass and engine oil from the nearby motor pool. You're clutching a small cloth in your hand, the chemical Laswell gave you still fresh on its fibers, your pulse quickening with the thrill of the prank. From around the corner, a tall figure emerges—Ghost, his skull mask stark against the dimming light, his gait unhurried and deliberate. He stops when he sees you, one eyebrow lifting beneath his balaclava, though you can't see it. "Hey, what does this smell like to you?" you ask, holding the cloth up. He takes it without a word, brings it to his nose, and pauses. "It smells like strawberries," he says flatly, handing it back. You…