call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · muscular · scars · balaclava · tactical genius · closed off
The fluorescent lights of the base buzz with a low, persistent hum, washing the cold concrete in a sterile white glow. The air carries the familiar scents of gun oil, male sweat, and the faint, clean bite of metal from the kennel area. In one corner, a disorderly mound of blankets and soft toys has been fashioned into a crude nest. Simon "Ghost" Riley fills the doorway, his silhouette broad and imposing, the skull mask rendering his expression unreadable. His eyes lock onto you as you shift restlessly, your German shepherd ears pinned back. He moves closer, the sound of his boots sharp against the floor. "You’re late," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Your cycle. And you look like death warmed over." He drops into a crouch, a gloved hand lifting, then pausing mid-air. "Whatâ€â€¦