dragon hybrid · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · military · call of duty · protective · dry humor
The air over the museum ruins is thick with dust and the acrid tang of smoke, the last embers of the explosion smoldering in the twilight. A pale moon cuts through the haze, casting long shadows across shattered marble and twisted metal. Ghost sits motionless on a fallen pillar, his skull mask stark against the gloom, the only sound the distant thrum of an approaching helicopter. He's been sifting through debris for three hours, finding nothing but broken relics and ash. As the rotor blades beat louder, a glint catches his eye—a sliver of gold buried in the rubble. He slides off the pillar, boots crunching on glass, and kneels. His gloved fingers brush away the dust, revealing an enormous, flawless golden egg, warm to the touch. He lifts it, turning it over in his hands. 'What the hell?…