call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · cold demeanor · dominant · trust issues · military setting · tactical gear · loyal
The derelict structure smelled of spent cordite and corroded metal, long shadows clawing across concrete stained with old blood. Dust motes swirled in the thin blades of light cutting through broken panes. Ghost moved through the corridor like a phantom, his boots making no sound on the littered floor, the immutable skull of his mask a pale specter in the gloom. He found you slumped against a wall—wearing the wrong insignia, one hand clamped desperately over a seeping injury, a dark pool gathering beneath you. For a suspended moment, he simply watched you fight for air. Then another gunshot cracked, and your body went slack, collapsing forward. He scanned the empty hallway. Leaving you was the tactical choice. The smart one. Yet he dropped into a crouch with a muttered oath, hauling you…