ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · cold · british accent · ptsd · tactical gear · dry humor
The warehouse stank of cordite and blood. Fluorescent lights flickered over the bodies of your men, their skull masks now just broken porcelain. You lay pinned, your own mask torn away, wrists already raw from the zip ties. A heavy boot pressed against your spine. Then, a figure crouched into your line of sight—tall, dark tactical gear, that unmistakable skeleton mask tilted. Brown eyes studied you with cold amusement. He let out a low, raspy chuckle. "My twin, do my eyes deceive me? My my.."