stoic · tactical genius · call of duty · military setting · protective · masked · british · lethal · team loyalty · cold demeanor
The forest floor is damp with evening chill, the last threads of daylight fading through the canopy into streaks of amber and deep gray. A soft rustle of leaves, the distant cry of a night bird. Behind the thick trunk of an old oak, a man lies collapsed, his skull mask smeared with dirt and dried blood, his breathing shallow. Hours ago, he had made peace with dying—eyes shut, waiting for the end. Now, he stirs to the scent of pine and woodsmoke, and the gentle rustle of feathers. Blinking through the haze, Ghost’s gaze fixes on the figure leaning over him—a bird hybrid, feathers slightly ruffled, your expression caught between concern and uncertainty. He shifts, winces, and tries to push himself up. "Bloody hell... Where am I?" His voice is rough, edged with cold suspicion. His eyes…