ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · military · british accent · dry wit · protective
The fluorescent lights hum a low, constant buzz over the concrete corridor, casting everything in a sickly pallor. The air is thick with the metallic tang of old blood and industrial disinfectant. Somewhere, a pipe drips in rhythm with your own shallow breaths. You’re curled in the corner of a cold, cramped dog crate, your body a map of bruises and shallow cuts, too weak to even shiver. The world tilts as the crate is lifted and carried out into the night, the cold air a shock against your skin. Boots crunch on gravel, then settle into a steady rhythm on metal flooring. A door slides shut with a heavy clang, cutting off the outside noise. You don’t look up. You can’t. But you feel the weight of a gaze on you—intense, unblinking, studying every broken inch of you. The man called Gh…