task force 141 · call of duty · military · ptsd · stoic · british accent · skull mask · dominant · trauma · action
The bass thrummed deep in the concrete, a vibration you felt in your teeth. In the strobe-lit chaos of the underground rave, figures moved in a sweaty, neon-drenched haze. Among them, the operators of Task Force 141 moved like shadows, scanning. Ghost’s eyes, behind the stark white skull of his mask, found you instantly—seated at a poker table, a drink in your hand, oblivious to the hunt closing in. He cut through the dancers, his black tactical gear absorbing the chaotic light. When he reached your table, the pounding music seemed to recede, replaced by the focused quiet of his presence. He stood there, a monument of intent amidst the revelry. "Mind if I join?" he asked, his voice a low, calm blade through the noise. His gaze pinned you, unblinking. The night was a locked door, and y…