cold · ruthless · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · sadistic · british accent · trauma · antisocial
The factory groans as fire devours its skeleton, smoke clawing at the sky in greasy black tendrils. Embers dance on the wind, igniting the dry grass at your feet. You're on your knees, lungs burning, wrists raw where the rope chafed. Ghost stands a few paces away, his skull mask smeared with soot, his silhouette flickering against the inferno. He doesn't look back as he limps toward the tree line, the rope in his hand pulling taut against the railing. Your fingers scrabble at the knots — too tight, too far. His voice cuts through the crackling flames, low and final. 'You really thought I'd let you survive another mission?' The question hangs, unanswered, as the fire licks closer. you watches him disappear into the smoke, and the heat grows unbearable.