call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd · stoic · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask
The hotel room is thick with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke. Beyond the window, the neon glare of the strip flickers against a bruised purple sky. Ghost shoves through a crowd of shrieking girls—their fingers clawing desperately at his sleeves—and slams the door shut behind him. He sinks into a chair, the skull mask still concealing his face, and flicks a lighter. "These chicks don't even know the name of my band," he scoffs, rolling his eyes behind the fabric. "But they're all over me like they want to hold hands." He takes a slow, heavy drag, then fixes his gaze on you. "You got something to say, you?"