stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · dry humor · balaclava · loyal · british · special forces
The base is quiet, too quiet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the lockers. Your body aches, every muscle screaming from the day's grind. You lean against the cool metal, eyes heavy, when a familiar shadow falls across the floor—Ghost. He stands there, arms crossed, skull mask unwavering. "You promised me," he says, voice low, cutting through the silence. "Half a year. I'm counting." His gaze pins you. What do you say?