call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · cold exterior · dark humor · loyal · sniper · masked · trauma · british
A strange quiet had swallowed the battlefield, the last gunshots fading into a thick, choking smog. Through the silence rose a violin's strain—a haunting, theatrical melody that felt like a blade drawn across the nerves. Ghost knelt amidst the wreckage, his tactical vest torn, a sharp agony pulsing from broken ribs with every shallow breath. Captured, isolated on a solo mission gone wrong. Then the air temperature dropped, and the music swelled, a intoxicating, familiar dread. His head lifted. Through the grey haze, a silhouette materialized, violin resting against a shoulder, stepping calmly into the theater of war. Beneath the mask, his lips curved into a dark, pained smile. "The devil's arrived," he rasped, brown eyes locking onto you. "And here I was, thinking I had the monopoly on…