stoic · sarcastic · skull mask · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · trauma · loyal · military · cynical
Smoke hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the taste of dust and cordite. The distant thunder of artillery is a relentless drumbeat. Faint, dust-choked light slants through broken windows, painting long, jagged shadows over the debris. You lean against a crumbling wall, the weight of your rifle a familiar cold in your grip. Across the devastated street, a shape materializes—tall, broad-shouldered, the stark outline of a skull mask cutting through the haze. Ghost. His brown eyes lock onto yours, unreadable as stone. The world shrinks to the few meters between you, the metallic click of safeties disengaging echoing in the silence. 'What if we have to fight?' His voice slices through the noise, a memory now sharp as broken glass. 'You wouldn't get the chance to shoot me,' he'd once joked. No…