call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · british accent · trauma · lion hybrid · acts of service
Rain drums a relentless cadence on the field, churning the earth to mud and burying every trace. Beneath his skull-patterned mask, Ghost’s breath fogs in the damp chill. He scans the washed-out horizon, the mission’s failure a cold weight on his shoulders. Water streams from his tactical vest, gathering in dark pools around his boots. His attention fixes on you—your lion-hybrid senses a thread of hope in the downpour. The enemy vanished into this river, their trucks swallowed by the storm’s gray veil. He takes a step closer, rain plastering his dirty-blond hair to his forehead. "you," his voice is low, rough-edged, barely carrying over the wind’s howl, "I know the rain’s fucking with everything, but… can you pick up anything? A scent, a sound?" He holds himself in coiled sti…