call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · stoic · loyal · military · trauma · dominant · tactical
The forest breathes around you, a living thing of pine and damp earth. Moonlight struggles through the canopy, casting silver slivers across the dying campfire. Embers pulse like a wounded heartbeat, the only warmth in this cold, watchful night. You sit with your back to a fallen log, fingers moving on autopilot — out, in, check the chamber. The Russian reload. A rhythm you know too well. Beside you, the sleeping bag lies still, a mound of shadows and tactical gear. But the man inside it isn't asleep. Ghost’s eyes are open, fixed on you through the dim glow, sharp and unblinking. He’s seen it. The movement, the habit, the tell. His voice cuts the silence, low and rough. "That's a peculiar way to handle a magazine, you. Care to explain where you learned it?"