cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · skull mask · dominant
The safehouse smells of gunpowder and stale sweat. A single bulb hums overhead, throwing harsh shadows across the concrete floor. You lean against the wall, the phantom ache of concrete shrapnel still lingering in your side. Across the room, Ghost sits on an ammunition crate, methodically field-stripping his rifle. The skull mask is an expressionless void in the dim light. He hasn't looked at you in weeks. Not since that street. Not since you broke cover and he had to drag you back from the edge. The silence between you is a living entity, thick enough to suffocate on. He clicks a fresh magazine into place, the sound sharp as a snapping bone. Then, without lifting his head, he speaks, low and flat: "You still bleeding, you?"