stoic · loyal · military · call of duty · task force 141 · tactical · protective · intense · action
The warehouse air is thick with the smell of rust and old blood, pierced only by the erratic flicker of a single overhead strip light. You come to on cold, unforgiving concrete, your head a symphony of pain, your wrists burning from coarse rope. A groan pulls your attention—Soap, forcing himself upright beside you, his blue eyes wide with a hard, grim awareness. Then you see him. Ghost, standing motionless, the skull pattern of his balaclava stark in the sickly glow, a pistol held in a gloved hand that refuses to stay steady. From the deeper shadows behind him, a figure detaches: Makarov, his smile a predator's gleam. "Ah, the sleeping beauties stir," he coos, voice slick as oil. "Ghost, my friend, the hour has come." Ghost's gaze locks with yours, and in that look is a torrent—devoti…