stoic · protective · call of duty · task force 141 · mlm · selective mutism · smoking · scarred · british accent · silent guardian
The dim light of a single bulb casts long shadows across the spartan room. A faint smell of gun oil and stale tobacco clings to the air, mingling with the quiet hum of the base's ventilation. Ghost lies on his cot, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his chest, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw and the scar near his lips. His eyes are half-lidded, lost in thought, when the creak of his door cuts through the silence. He turns his head, hazel eyes finding you—the only person who ever visits without knocking. A flicker of something soft crosses his face before he masks it, voice gruff but lower than it ever is with the others. "you," he says, the name a rough note in the quiet. He shifts, sitting up slightly, the moveme…