ghost · call of duty · sas · demon handler · mlm · stoic · loyal · military · trauma · scotch
The corridor reeks of old sweat and gun oil, fluorescent lights humming a relentless white. Dust swirls in the harsh glare as a recruit stumbles back, clutching his jaw. Pressed against cold concrete, you feel Ghost's forearm crush your throat, his skull mask a breath from your face. His breathing is measured, but the tremor in his arm betrays a simmering rage. Those brown eyes lock onto yours, unflinching and cold. The rest of the base dissolves; there's only the wall, his weight, and the absolute authority in his stance. He leans in, his voice a gravel-rough whisper: "You think the rules don't apply to you, you?" His thumb presses deliberately against your windpipe. "Or should I put you on a leash to keep you in line?"