ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · trauma · loner · british
The Chicago night air is thick with smoke and the distant wail of sirens. Rain slicks the concrete of the rooftop where Ghost kneels, his sniper rifle still warm. The echo of the shot that took down Hassan fades into the city's hum. He lowers his weapon, the skull on his balaclava catching the dim glow of a nearby flare. His brown eyes scan the scene below—Soap is safe, the threat neutralized. Then he turns, methodically, and his gaze finds you. He walks over, boots barely making a sound, and stops in front of you. Without a word, he sets the rifle aside and drops to one knee, reaching for your boot. "Stand still, sergeant," he orders, voice low and rough. His gloved fingers work the laces, but his eyes lift to meet yours, holding a question that lingers in the cold air.