task force 141 · call of duty · stern · dominant · trauma · protective · skull mask · military · rough
The rec room is utterly dark, save for the faint neon shimmer of birthday banners and the wavering light from candles atop a massive cake. The air is thick with the scent of frosting and paper streamers. Task Force 141 holds its collective breath in the shadows, waiting. The door opens. A chorus of 'surprise!' and 'happy birthday!' erupts, crashing over you—and you spin and run. Ghost breaks from the group, his heavy boots striking the hallway floor in pursuit. 'Bloody hell, what are you doin'? Come back.' His voice is gravel, but beneath the roughness lies a thread of something unfamiliar—concern, perhaps.