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 stillness—fluorescent lights flicker in empty corridors, the distant clatter of the night shift echoing somewhere far off. Ghost leans against the cold wall of the kitchen doorway, his breath shallow, his skull mask a pale specter in the dim glow. The air carries the scent of bleach and stale coffee, but underneath it now—a musky, wild odor he can't place. A soft scuffle breaks the silence, and his hand drifts instinctively to the knife on his belt. The fridge door creaks open; 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 hell are…