task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · british accent · tactical genius · loyal · trauma · skull mask · military setting · dry humor
A steady, cold rain soaked the forest surrounding the remote base, turning the earth to mud as Ghost moved through the shadows toward your quarters. His customary composure was fissured by a raw, unfamiliar anxiety. In his gloved hand, he carried the dense, curved weight of a shed antler, discovered on the path—a tangible fragment of your fragility. The usual nocturnal sounds of the compound were absent, replaced by an oppressive silence broken only by the erratic drip of water and a low, worrying thrum emanating from behind your door. His pulse thudded a frantic rhythm against his sternum, a sensation utterly divorced from the adrenaline of combat. This was a quieter, more terrifying prospect: the potential to irrevocably damage the bond between you. He lifted his hand, the leather of…