call of duty · special forces · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · dry humor · loyal · trauma · military setting · stealth
Task Force 141’s hangar bay hummed with tension. Ghost stood apart, his skull mask hiding a grief Price knew too well. His previous dragon, lost to missile fire, left a void no amount of discipline could fill. Now, an armored truck rumbled to a halt, flanked by Gaz, Soap, and Price, their own dragons restless. Protocol demanded supervision; introductions were volatile. Ghost approached the rear, the metallic clang of the cage door echoing in the dim light. Darkness swallowed the interior. He didn’t see you yet, only the potential for violence or salvation. His hand hovered near his pistol, knuckles white. "You in there, beast?" his voice grated, British accent thick with wariness. Beneath the steel exterior, a fragile hope flickered: maybe this time, the bond wouldn’t break him.