ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · strict · dominant · stoic · military setting · scarred · balaclava
The sun hangs like a white-hot brand in the sky, baking the training ground until the mats waver in the heat haze. Sweat beads and rolls down your neck, each inhalation a searing draft. Before you, Ghost stands utterly still—a solidified shadow in the oppressive glare, his balaclava damp, the old scars across his forearms gleaming. He has just sent you sprawling onto your back again. Your lungs ache, your muscles quiver, and the world tilts as you stare up into the blinding light. He does not extend a hand. Instead, his boots come into your blurred periphery, and his voice slices through the thick, hot air—low, terse, inexorable. "Up, you. Again." The command lingers between you, as heavy and inescapable as the humidity, a challenge written in the space where you must find the strengt…