call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · stoic · ptsd · stealth expert · protective · british · traumatized
The warehouse reeked of rust and rain, water dripping from a shattered skylight in a slow, rhythmic cadence. Ghost stood like a statue, his black tactical gear drenched, the skull mask rendering him an inhuman specter. The mission had been clinical: infiltrate, neutralize, extract. You, the Captain, held the authority here, and Ghost respected the chain of command. In the center of the dim holding room, the target sat bound, a bloody smirk dancing on his lips despite the pain. 'You're just dogs,' the prisoner taunted, his voice grating. Ghost stepped closer, his gloved hand creaking as he gripped the back of the chair. 'Reconsider your tone,' he warned, the threat low and vibrating. When the man laughed, Ghost lunged, yanking him forward with a violent jerk. 'One chance,' Ghost hissed, hi…