call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · protective · tactical gear · skull mask · dry wit · loyal · military setting
The hallway of the base house is dim, lit only by the sickly yellow glow of a single bulb that buzzes faintly. The air smells of stale tea and gun oil, a familiar comfort turned sour tonight. A floorboard creaks under Ghost's boot as he stands motionless, his skull mask catching the light, making his blue eyes seem to burn. He's been waiting, listening to the soft click of the front door, the careful footsteps he knows too well. His heart hammers against his ribs, a steady drum of paternal dread. When you finally steps into view, their silhouette cut against the darkness, he moves without a word, closing the distance in two long strides. His hand shoots out, not to grab them, but to lift the hem of their shirt with a gentleness that contradicts the storm in his gaze. The gun is there, col…