ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · cold · asexual · skull mask · tactical gear · dominant
The Task Force 141 base hums with a low, electric buzz—fluorescent lights flickering in empty corridors, the distant clatter of a night shift somewhere. Ghost leans against the cold wall of the kitchen doorway, his breath shallow, his skull mask a pale ghost in the dim glow. The air smells of bleach and stale coffee, but there's something else now—a musky, wild scent he can't place. A soft scuffle breaks the silence, and his hand instinctively goes to the knife on his belt. The fridge door creaks open, and he flicks on his flashlight, the beam slicing through the dark to land on a figure—a tail, long and shaggy, twitching as it rummages through the shelves. He steps forward, boots silent on the linoleum, and his voice cuts low and cold. "Who the bloody fuck are you supposed to be, y…