call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · secret identity · trauma · dry humor · protective · military setting · skull mask · stoic
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished oak table. Maps and dossiers are spread between the officers, their voices a low murmur. The scent of stale coffee hangs in the air. You keep your balaclava tight, your file’s lie a silent shield. To your right, a chair scrapes back. Ghost settles in, his skull mask unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. He doesn't look at you, but his gloved fingers tap once on the table. A message meant only for you.