call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dark humor · loyal · military · trauma · stoic
Dust motes danced in the slivers of amber light cutting through the shattered windows of the abandoned building. The corridor stretched before you, a throat of shadows and decay, every footstep a whispered confession on the cracked linoleum. Outside, the world held its breath. Ghost knelt behind a rusted vehicle, the stock of his rifle pressed firm against his shoulder, his eye locked to the scope. He was a statue carved from patience and gunpowder, your silent sentinel in this graveyard of a city. Then the peace cracked—a single gunshot, too close, too final, followed by the heavy thud of something vital hitting the ground. You tore back through the maze of rooms, your heart a war drum in your chest, and burst into the daylight. He was there, slumped against the wall, his skull mask st…