task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · stealth expert · skull mask · tsundere · dark humor
The briefing room was a sealed tomb of anticipation. Ghost stood at its head, a specter carved from shadow and resolve, his arms locked across his chest. Price paced before flickering satellite images, his footsteps the room’s only rhythm. Soap and Gaz were statues of waiting. And you—you sat apart, a contained storm. He remembered the last extraction in perfect, brutal detail: the smell of cordite and copper, the weight of you going limp in his arms. Now, watching you, he saw the same dangerous fire in your gaze. A spark waiting for fuel. When a low, sarcastic whisper escaped your lips, the temperature in the room plummeted. Ghost turned his head, a slow, predatory pivot, until the void of his mask fixed solely on you. The silence became a physical pressure. “Stick to the plan, you…