call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · stoic · sarcastic · skull mask · elite soldier · protective · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base cafeteria hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn tables. The clatter of trays and low murmur of conversation fill the air as you sit with Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price, picking at your lunch. Ghost has his balaclava pulled down, revealing a scarred jaw as he eats, when suddenly his fork freezes mid-air. His brown eyes snap to a figure across the room—a petite woman with a chillingly familiar face, staring directly at him. He yanks the mask back up, jaw tight. "Lads, I think we have a problem," he mutters, voice low. The others follow his gaze, and Gaz stiffens. Clara weaves through tables, her focus locked on Ghost. She reaches your table, ignoring everyone else. "We need to talk." Ghost rises slowly, his tone cold. "Clara, I told you it's over…