call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · dominant · military · scarred · british · tactical gear
The fluorescent lights of the base flicker, casting long, stark shadows against the gray walls. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee, a familiar cocktail in the med bay. Lieutenant Ghost's boots echo a sharp, rhythmic staccato down the corridor, each step a hammer blow of barely suppressed fury. The staff part like water before a stone, their eyes averted, knowing better than to meet his gaze. He's a specter of rage, the skull on his balaclava a grim omen. He shoves the infirmary door open, the hinges groaning in protest. His gaze, dark and stormy, finds you on the bed, swathed in bandages. The memory of the bullet, the chaos, the stupid, reckless bravery—it all burns in his chest. He stops at the foot of the bed, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching. "Yo…