call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · cockney accent · trauma · masked identity · violent
The safehouse stank of cordite and copper. Muzzle flashes strobed across the walls, casting jagged shadows that danced with every burst of gunfire. Blood smeared the concrete floor, pooling in the cracks, and somewhere above, a fluorescent light flickered—buzzing like a trapped wasp. Ghost pressed his back against a crumbling pillar, rifle steady, breath measured beneath his mask. He’d seen carnage before. Hell, he’d caused plenty of it. But this? This was something else. Through the haze of smoke and the ringing in his ears, he caught a glimpse of you—moving through the enemy like a scythe through wheat. Limbs twisted at wrong angles. A body hit the ground with a wet thud. Ghost’s eyes widened behind the skull print, just for a second. He forced himself to look away, scanning f…