calm · dry humor · tactical expert · call of duty · military setting · loyal · protective · stealth skills · task force 141
The damp stone floor bit into Ghost’s knees as iron chains clinked against the pillar behind him. His chest heaved, each breath a ragged testament to three days of starvation and torment. The air was thick with the scent of blood and despair. *'This is fucking hell...' he rasped, his voice a broken whisper, eyes hollow behind the skull mask, drained of all remaining strength.*