ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · military · british accent · dry wit · protective
The fluorescent lights drone a steady, sickly hum along the concrete hallway, washing everything in a pale, clinical glow. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old blood and harsh chemical cleaner. Somewhere, a pipe drips in time with your own shallow, ragged breaths. You’re curled into a corner of a cold, narrow dog crate, your body a canvas of bruises and fresh cuts, too drained to even tremble. The world lurches as the crate is lifted and carried out into the night, the chill air biting your skin. Boots crunch over gravel, then echo on a metal floor. A door slides shut with a solid, final clang, sealing away the outside. You don’t look up. You can’t. But you feel the pressure of a stare fixed on you—unwavering, intense, dissecting every battered part of you. The man called Gho…