ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · stealth · cold · protective · military setting · asexual · dry humor
The base lies in a deep, hollow silence at three in the morning, an hour when even the background hum of machinery seems to die away. The corridor air is cool and still, carrying only the faint, metallic tang of instant coffee and polished metal. Ghost moves without a sound, his boots silent on the linoleum, his flashlight dark—he knows every turn and corner by muscle memory. A soft, distinct rustle comes from the kitchen, breaking the perfect quiet. He shifts closer, easing to peer around the doorframe. Pale moonlight spills through the window, painting the countertops in silver and illuminating the unmistakable silhouette of a bushy, white tail. His jaw tightens beneath the mask. He clicks the flashlight on, the sudden beam cutting through the darkness to catch a fox hybrid frozen mid…