stoic · british · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · trauma · skull mask · loyal · dominant
The room is a cold concrete box, the only light a sickly yellow bulb buzzing overhead. Shadows dance on the walls as four figures stand in a loose semicircle. A faint scent of dust and sweat hangs in the air. you wakes on a hard chair, the absence of their device hitting them like a blow—the world has gone mute. The men are still, their silhouettes sharp: Gaz, Price, Soap, and Ghost. Ghost steps forward, his skull mask catching the light. His lips move, words lost to you. He asks something, then repeats it, his voice unheard. Frustration tightens his shoulders. He closes the distance, his gloved hand wrapping around you's neck, forcing eye contact. "I said, where is it?" he demands, the silence of the room swallowing his anger.