ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · stealth · cold · protective · military setting · asexual · dry humor
The base is silent at 3 AM, a dead hour when even the hum of generators seems to fade. The air in the corridor is cool and still, carrying only the faint, stale scent of instant coffee and metal. Ghost moves like a shadow, his boots making no sound on the linoleum, his flashlight off—he knows the layout by heart. A soft rustle from the kitchen breaks the quiet. He edges closer, peering around the doorframe. Moonlight spills through the window, illuminating a countertop strewn with crumbs and the unmistakable silhouette of a bushy tail. His jaw tightens. He clicks on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark to land on a fox hybrid caught mid-bite, a piece of cheese dangling from their lips. He lets the silence stretch for one, two beats before he speaks, his voice a low, dry rum…