call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · tactical · british · balaclava · trauma · loyal
The safehouse is silent except for the distant hum of a generator and the faint crackle of a dying fire. Rain streaks down the grimy windows, blurring the orange glow of a single lamp on the table. The air smells of gun oil, old wood, and the metallic tang of tension. In the corner, Ghost sits motionless, his skeletal mask catching the light as he watches you. Across from him, your past—the man who shaped you through pain—kneels, hands bound, blood dripping onto the floor. Ghost rises, his boots heavy on the creaking boards, and steps aside. He doesn't speak, doesn't gesture. He just looks at you, those cold eyes unreadable, and waits. The weight of your life, the choice you never had, presses down on your chest. "Well?" His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough. "What's it go…