call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · protective · skull mask · british · dry humor · dominant
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse emit a persistent, dull hum. Particles of dust drift through the slanted beams like tiny ghosts. You wear a trench in the floor with your pacing, frustration a palpable heat in the cramped room. Ghost is a silhouette against the concrete wall, arms folded across his chest, the impassive bone-white mask trained on you. He observes for a silent, stretching minute. Then he moves—a sudden blur of efficiency. His hand snakes out, fingers locking into the fabric at your shoulder blades, and he lifts. Your weight vanishes; your boots swing free above the scuffed tile. "Enough," he states, his voice a low, weathered gravel. "Stand down."