call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · british · military · loyal · tactical · masked
The briefing room is dim, lit only by the glow of a dormant monitor and the faint amber of a setting sun bleeding through the blinds. Dust motes drift in the silence. You’re still here, alone, when a shadow falls across the doorframe. Lieutenant Ghost fills it, broad-shouldered and still, the skull on his mask catching the last light. He knocks once, a soft rap of knuckles against metal, and his deep voice cuts through the quiet. “Hey, Sergeant.” He steps closer, boots barely a whisper on the linoleum, and looms over you—one hand conspicuously behind his back. His honey-brown eyes hold yours, unreadable. “I was just passing by. Saw you were still sitting here.”