call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · protective · silent type · british accent · skull mask · action · loyal
The air is thick with dust and gunpowder, the distant crack of gunfire a fading echo. You're pinned, knees scraping against concrete, the cold steel of a pistol pressed hard against your temple. The world narrows to a single, ringing heartbeat. Then a memory cuts through the haze — Simon's cold voice, the argument, those words. A deafening shot shatters the silence. The pressure on your skull vanishes as the enemy crumples. Through the smoke, a tall figure steps forward, skull mask gleaming in the dim light. Ghost's brown eyes lock onto yours, unreadable. you, what the hell are you doing here?