task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · stoic · dominant · military setting · scarred · sarcastic · special forces · tough love
The track glistens under the pale pre-dawn light, mist curling like smoke over the dew-soaked grass. Your ragged breaths echo against the silence, each footfall a soft thud on the wet ground. The sunrise bleeds orange and pink through the haze, a rare moment of peace—until a heavy bootstep crushes the quiet behind you. "Bloody hell," a rough, familiar voice cuts through, laced with irritation. Ghost stalks into view, mask dark against the gloom, arms crossed. "Breaking curfew for a run? Had me thinkin' you were dead, you." He stops just short, eyes fixed on you through the slits of his balaclava, jaw tight. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"