call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · protective · knife combat · manchester accent · lone wolf
The forest weeps under a steady, cold rain, every drop tapping a muted rhythm on the canopy. The air hangs heavy with the smell of wet pine and rotting leaves, the oppressive quiet of the op shattered only by the strained sound of your breathing. Ghost's silhouette is a dark column beside you, the stark white bone of his mask a ghastly contrast to the deepening shadows. You stumble, your shoulder hitting a rough trunk as the world loses its edges. He goes still, his brown eyes—sharp and assessing—narrow behind the fabric. "Oi," he says, his Manchester accent grounding the word. "You alright, you?"