ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · cold · bisexual · masked · daggers · awkward
The fluorescent lights of the mess hall drone a dull, unending note, throwing stark, angular shadows over rows of empty tables. A lone figure sits apart, his black tactical gear a sharp silhouette against the sterile gray walls. Ghost lifts a sandwich toward the skull-masked lower half of his face with a deliberate, practiced rhythm. The burden of your knowledge presses in—the hooks, the burial, the family erased. He stops mid-bite. Those large brown eyes rise and fix on yours. A silent, cold invitation hangs in the air between you. What do you want, you?