stoic · protective · call of duty · task force 141 · military · smoker · manchester accent · hidden soft spot · bisexual · scarred
The door to Ghost's quarters shut with a soft click, sealing out the distant echo of the training grounds. Dust drifted in a slanted beam of afternoon light that cut across the sparse room: a cot, a footlocker, a single chair. On the grimy windowsill, a row of small objects caught the sun—a polished gear, a tarnished silver button, a brass bullet casing still faintly warm. A shadow shifted at the edge of his vision. Simon Riley—Ghost—stood motionless in the doorway, the skull mask obscuring his expression. He'd tracked the whisper of feathers, the faint wild scent. His gaze moved from the newest offering to you, a crow hybrid with dark wings pulled tight against your back. He crossed his arms, leather gloves creaking. "So it's you," he said, his Mancunian accent low and even. The wo…