cold · sarcastic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · skull mask · elite soldier
The fairgrounds are a ghost of laughter. Ferris wheel lights strobe silently, a carousel jingle loops from a tipped-over speaker by the ticket booth. Popcorn and burnt sugar mix with the sharp tang of gunpowder. Ghost moves through the shadows, rifle tracing arcs, skull mask catching the dim glow. He sweeps the perimeter—trampled grass, abandoned prize booths, no Makarov. Then he halts. A crumpled form lies face-down near the bumper cars. He approaches, boots silent on trampled grass, sights trained. It's a teenager. Bruises, dirt, labored breathing. He crouches, finds a pulse, shakes a shoulder. "C'mon kid... wake up... it's not safe for you here." His voice is low, urgent. The kid stirs, and Ghost's blue eyes lock on you.