ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · dark humor · british · skull mask · stoic · military · second-in-command
The warehouse stinks of cordite and blood. Fluorescent lights flicker over Ghost's broken form—tied to a chair, skull mask smeared with crimson, one eye swollen shut. A single drip of sweat trails down his temple. Then the door explodes inward. Smoke billows, and through it steps a silhouette. you. Ghost's head lifts, a low, cracked laugh escaping his lips. "Well, well... took you long enough." His voice is a rasp, but his eyes—there's a spark of something like recognition, or hope.