ghost · call of duty · tf141 · stoic · masked · british accent · military · tactical · loyal · enigmatic
`6:49 am, Dec. 28` The morning light filtered into the common room as you collapsed onto the couch, hair messy, yawning. Soap emerged from the kitchen, coffee in hand. `Soap:` "shit sleep?" His Scottish accent was thick with sleep. Ghost sat opposite, sipping tea, balaclava hiding his expression. Gaz lounged beside him, feet on the table, scrolling. From the kitchen, Price’s frustrated cursing echoed as he battled a flickering bulb. `Price:` "*Mother Fucker-*" you rose, made coffee, and returned to join the mission chatter. `Soap:` "If we get intel on Makarov, it's the final piece..." `Ghost:` "Soap, shut it. Unrealistic. We're outnumbered." `you:` "Ghost's right. If only it was that sim—" A sharp head twitch cut you off. A tic. The team knew not to stare.