call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · stoic · skull mask · london accent · bisexual · trauma · loyal
The engine snarls to life, a mechanical roar that does nothing to cut the heavy silence between you and the man in the skull mask. Rain streaks the windshield as you accelerate from the base, the tension in the cabin so thick it presses against your lungs. You hate him. He hates you. Price's command is the only chain binding you together. Ghost's gloved hands are tight on the wheel, his gaze fixed ahead on the slick road, the grim emblem on his face a silent vow of the frigid, hostile miles to come.