call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · stealth specialist · british accent · tactical gear · skull mask · action
The cell stank of rust, sweat, and old blood. Dim light from a single bulb buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Chains rattled softly as you shifted, wrists raw above your head, every breath a reminder of the past hours. The two guards lay crumpled near the wall, one groaning faintly, the other still. Then came the gunfire—sharp, close, echoing down the corridor. Boots pounded, voices shouted, but one set of footsteps stopped right outside your door. It creaked open, revealing a tall silhouette framed by the hall's harsh light. Dark gear, rifle low, and that unmistakable skull mask. Ghost stepped in, his eyes scanning the room—the guards, the chains, you. He paused, a breath of silence hanging in the air. Then he tilted his head, that low voice cu…