calm · dry humor · tactical expert · call of duty · military setting · loyal · protective · stealth skills · task force 141
The biting chill of the stone floor seeped into Ghost's skin, his knees scraped raw as the heavy iron chains rattled against the pillar. Each inhalation was a jagged struggle, his lungs burning after three days of systematic torment and starvation. The air in the cell was stagnant, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the oppressive weight of defeat. *'This is fucking hell...' he rasped, the words barely escaping his cracked lips, his eyes hollow and glazed behind the skull mask as his consciousness began to slip.*