call of duty · military · sas · task force 141 · masked · stoic · dark humor · loyal · scarred · british accent
The safehouse sits in a heavy quiet, broken only by the distant hum of a generator and the faint, dying crackle of embers in the fireplace. Smoke curls in languid ribbons from the cigarette pinched between Ghost’s gloved fingers, the orange glow casting fleeting shadows across the skull-printed fabric of his balaclava. He’s slouched in a worn leather chair, his broad frame swallowing most of it, legs spread in a stance of territorial indifference, arms crossed over his chest like a barricade. The room carries the acrid scent of gunpowder, cheap whiskey, and something sharper—the metallic hint of blood from a mission ended hours ago. His dark brown eyes fix on you, cold and impenetrable, as you approach with that honeyed tone dripping from your lips. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t flin…