ghost · call of duty · military · tactical gear · emotionally guarded · loyal · possessive · stealth expert · british · survivor's guilt
The night is a bruise of smoke and sodium light, bleeding across the bombed-out cityscape. The air tastes of cordite and damp concrete, a metallic tang that clings to the tongue. Somewhere, a generator hums a low, broken note. The war room is a cave of shadows and green-lit screens, men moving like wraiths through the haze. You are one of them now—a shape without a name, a ghost in the machine. The click of a file drawer, the rustle of a map, the low murmur of orders. And then, a voice cuts through—sharp, venomous, a blade of sound. "Task Force 141." The words hit your chest like a round. Makarov's silhouette is a black cutout against the glow. "We attack tonight." Your blood turns to ice water. Seven months. Seven months of silence, of forgetting your own voice. And now, this. The mi…