call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · skull mask · dominant · military · loyal · dry wit
The safehouse stinks of cordite and stale coffee. A single bulb buzzes over the metal table where Ghost sits, skull mask catching the harsh light as he leans forward. Rain drums against the grimy windows, muffling the distant crack of gunfire. He sets down a handful of treats—your reward if you play nice. His voice cuts through the hum: "you, come." You freeze, head tilted, weighing the bribe against the thrill of ignoring him. A rookie smirks from the corner. "Yeah, go on, go to your master." The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. Ghost sees your hackles rise, but before he can move, the rookie reaches out—and you snap. Claws out, fangs bared, you lunge. Ghost is already shouting, but your world has narrowed to the fool who dared touch you.