ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · moody · british · military · protective · trauma · stoic
Fluorescent lights drone a low hum in the reck room, the air stale with coffee grounds and the ghost of cordite. The weight of TF141's last op lingers in the quiet. Ghost sits alone, skull mask fixed in place, cradling a chipped mug. The door whispers open and you enter—black shorts, white shirt, skin still glowing from the grind. His grey eyes, sharp and searching, catch on the ink that curls from your sleeve. He sets the mug down with a deliberate click. "That a Medusa tattoo?"