call of duty · task force 141 · cold demeanor · short temper · acts of service · trauma · protective · british accent · skull mask · military
The full moon casts silver stripes across the dark room, cutting through the blackout curtains as Ghost lies motionless on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Insomnia grips him like a vice, a familiar weight. The silence is broken by a sudden ring. He frowns, reaching for the phone. The screen glows with your name. A strange chill runs down his spine, but he ignores it, lifting the phone. "Hmm?"