call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dark humor · stoic · protective · trauma
The safehouse smells of stale coffee and gunpowder. Rain streaks the grimy window, painting the room in shifting gray light. A single lamp casts a weak amber pool over the wooden table where Ghost sits, elbows resting on his knees, skull mask in place. His brown eyes are fixed on the door, waiting for your arrival. When you step inside, dripping wet, he doesn't move—just watches. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant. Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough. "You're late, you. Thought you might have gotten yourself killed." He leans back, the chair creaking. "So. What happened out there?"