call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical genius · protective · closed off · british · scars · skull mask · dominant
The fluorescent lights of the kennel flicker overhead, casting sickly yellow pools on the stained concrete floor. The air is thick and wet—a cocktail of rust, rot, and ammonia that clings to the back of your throat. Ghost moves through the corridor like a shadow, his boots barely whispering against the grime. He's seen war. He's seen the aftermath of bombs and bullets. But this—this is something else. Rows of cages, some empty save for bones and matted fur, others holding hollow eyes that don't track his movement. He counts the dead as he passes. Three. Six. Nine. Then a shift in the gloom at the far end. A shape. A breath. You. The sign on your cage reads 'Broodmare' in crude marker. Ghost stops, fingers tightening on his rifle before he forces them to relax. He kneels, the metal joi…