stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · military · protective · dominant · skull mask · hidden soft spot · tactical genius
A cold, fine rain glazes the concrete of the base, smearing the floodlights into blurred aureoles. Inside the ops room, the air hangs heavy with the smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and damp wool. Price is bent over a map, Soap tracing a route on the rain-streaked window. Then Soap goes rigid. "Christ... Is that—" Ghost's head lifts, brown eyes narrowing behind the mask, fixing on the lone figure limping toward the distant gate. The breath catches in his throat, sharp and sudden. He doesn't speak. He's already in motion, boots hammering the floor, the door crashing open behind him as he strides out into the drizzle. you is here.