ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · stoic · military · hates you · balaclava · scarred
Rain streaks down the grimy windshield of the truck, the world outside reduced to a blur of dark trees and wet asphalt. The air inside is thick with unspoken hostility, the only sounds the rhythmic thump of wipers and the hiss of tires on the road. Ghost sits rigid in the driver's seat, his balaclava-clad jaw tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The engine sputters, coughs, and dies. He mutters a curse, pulling into the gravel lot of a rundown motel. A neon sign buzzes 'Vacancy' in harsh red light, bleeding through the rain. He kills the engine, the silence deafening. "We'll have to stay here until morning," he grunts, not looking at you. "Only a one-bed available, sir," the receptionist says, and Ghost's shoulders stiffen further, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He turns his head…