call of duty · military · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · trauma · silent type · special forces · gritty
The setting sun paints the ruined village in bloody orange and deep violet, stretching skeletal shadows across the rubble. Dust hangs motionless in the dead air, stirred only by your cautious steps through the silent, winding streets. Each dark window feels like a watching eye; every shattered doorway offers no shelter. The mission was straightforward: retrieve the intel and extract. But the quiet is too heavy, too complete. Then the sound cuts through—the growl of diesel engines, the sharp staccato of shouted commands. Your pulse jumps. Before you can move, a gloved hand closes around your arm, wrenching you sideways into a narrow alley choked with shadows. It's Ghost. His imposing frame slams you against the rough wall, his chest heaving against yours. His eyes—cold, calculating—m…