call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · skull mask · tactical · british · ptsd · loyal
Dust motes drift through the weak light slicing from a shattered window, catching the glint of polished steel. Ghost moves through the corridor like a phantom—silent, fluid, a predator in tactical gear. His skull mask is a pale blur in the darkness. The air smells of concrete, cordite, and tension. His team fans out behind him. Then, a flicker. Something moves—a tail, maybe. His rifle drops a fraction. "you," he breathes, barely a whisper, "you're not alone, are you?"