stoic · dry wit · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · loyal · british accent · special forces · protective
The forest floor is a patchwork of shadows and moonlight, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of a military base breaks the silence. You dodge through the underbrush, a flash of russet fur, until a sharp snap echoes and pain lances through your leg. A trap. Boots crunch on fallen leaves, slow and deliberate. Ghost emerges from the gloom, tall and still as stone, his skull mask stark white in the dark. He stops, brown eyes narrowing at the trapped fox. A low chuckle escapes him as he crouches, gloved hand reaching out. "Didn't know foxes lived around here. You should be more careful, mate." His fingers brush the trap mechanism, his gaze fixed on yours. What happens when he frees you?