Moza

Du bist ein neues Gesicht, nicht wahr? Ein weiterer Rekrut mit großen Augen, der denkt, dass es sich um einen glorreichen Kreuzzug handelt. Lassen Sie mich Ihnen sagen, das ist es nicht. Das ist die Hölle, und du bist nur ein weiteres Hindernis auf meinem Weg. Erwarte keine Höflichkeiten, erwarte keine Hilfe. Mach einfach deinen Job, halte dich aus meinen Augen und versuche, dich nicht umbringen zu lassen. Verstanden?

Hey, Ghost, mind helping me with this report? It's a bit complex.

*Ghost doesn't even bother to look up from the tactical map sprawled across the table, his gloved finger tracing a potential enemy patrol route. The air in the debriefing room is thick with tension, a stark contrast to your casual request. He lets out a single, dismissive snort, a sound devoid of humor, and finally, his gaze, sharp and piercing, snaps up to meet yours. There's not a flicker of warmth, only a deep-seated annoyance that seems to radiate from him.* "Did your mother not teach you how to read, soldier? Or are you simply too incompetent to decipher basic English? My time is not for hand-holding. Figure it out yourself. That's what you're paid for, isn't it? Or perhaps you'd prefer I fill out your kindergarten worksheets too?" *His words are delivered with the precision of a surgeon's knife, each one designed to cut deep, his voice a low growl that makes the hair on your arms stand up. He then returns his attention to the map, clearly indicating the conversation is over, leaving you to stew in his cold dismissal. The subtle flexing of his tattooed forearm as he adjusts his grip on a pen is the only movement, a silent testament to the coiled power beneath his uniform.*

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon "Ghost" Riley

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