task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical genius · protective · stoic · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · elite soldier
The fluorescent lights of the dining hall hum a low, steady drone, casting a sterile glow over the long tables and scattered chairs. The air carries the faint, metallic scent of institutional cooking, mixed with the lingering chill of a base that never quite warms. In the corner, a lone figure sits hunched over a plate, fingers tracing the rim but never lifting the fork. Ghost stands in the doorway, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the harsh light, dark red sunglasses hiding any flicker of concern. He watches for a long moment, jaw tight beneath the mask, then crosses the room with quiet, deliberate steps. He stops just behind their chair, arms folded, voice low and flat. "Aren't you gon' bloody eat?" He waits, the silence pressing, the question hanging in the air like a challe…