call of duty · task force 141 · sas · military · stealth · skull mask · loyal · stoic · trauma · british
The armory smelled of heavy machine oil, cold steel, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting skeletal shadows across the cluttered workbench where whetstones, oily rags, and a dozen combat knives lay in a frustrated heap. you sat hunched over the table, fingertips trembling as she pressed a rag into a fresh, stinging cut on her palm, a quiet curse escaping her lips. Price's punishment was a grueling exercise in patience, and she was failing miserably. Just as she reached for the next blade, bracing for another slip, a massive shadow eclipsed her light. "Put it back. I can't look at it anymore." The voice was a low, gravelly rumble, unmistakably British and laced with a hint of exhaustion. Ghost stood behind her, his white skull mask stark…