call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · ferret hybrid · sticky hands · tactical gear · skull mask · stealth · dry wit · loyal
The low hum of base lights buzz overhead, casting pale strips across the concrete floor. The air smells of gun oil, stale coffee, and the faint metallic tang of a well-used armory. In the corner of the rec room, a bundle of tactical gear sits rumpled—except it's not gear. It's you, curled around a stolen prize, whiskers twitching. A shadow falls over you first, then the soft creak of tactical boots. Simon "Ghost" Riley stands there, arms folded, skull mask unreadable, but his eyes catch the light with something close to warmth. "You've got some nerve, you know that?" His voice cuts the silence, calm and dry. He gestures with a chin toward the knife clutched in your little paws. "Thought it was just coincidence at first—little things going missing. Then I find your stash tucked away li…