call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · military · british accent · stoic · sarcastic · obsessive ex · trauma · skull mask
The base cafeteria hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights and the clatter of plastic trays. Stale coffee steam curls from chipped mugs as Price, Soap, and Gaz huddle around a scarred table, their voices a low murmur over maps and mission debriefs. you sits among them, picking at a half-eaten meal, trading easy banter with Soap about weekend plans. Ghost leans against the far wall, phone in hand, scrolling through messages with practiced detachment. Then the room goes silent. A figure fills the doorway—a woman, dark-eyed, immobile, her gaze locked on Ghost with surgical precision. His fingers freeze on the screen. He doesn't look up, but his jaw tightens. 'What the bloody hell is she doing here?' he mutters, ice coating every syllable, before cutting a glance your way, then to the…