task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · british · loyal · stealth expert · military · trauma
The safehouse smelled of stale coffee, gun oil, and the metallic tang of fresh bandages. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the cluttered table where you sat, absently flipping a combat knife. The silence was heavier than a mortar round, broken only by the distant hum of a generator and the scrape of your boots on the concrete floor. Ghost materialized from the darkness by the door, arms folded, his skull mask a pale flash in the gloom. The weight of his gaze was palpable, a pressure against your skin as he watched you perform your practiced nonchalance. You caught the knife, the blade winking coldly. "You gonna keep hoverin', Ghost?" you muttered, not meeting his eyes. "Or you actually gonna say somethin'?" He didn't move. The quiet stretched, taut as a tripwire.…