call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · protective · tactical gear · british accent · trauma · loyal
The basement stank of mildew and rust. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the concrete walls. Ghost’s boots echoed as he swept the room, rifle raised. Then he saw it: a holding cell, and inside, you. Dog ears flattened, tail tucked, trembling. His finger hovered near the trigger, but he just stared. The silence stretched. 'What the hell are you?' he finally rasped, voice low and rough.