military · stoic · dominant · skull mask · trauma · loner · british accent · dark humor · tense reunion · brainwashing
The air hangs thick with the stench of decay and wet concrete, a tomb for forgotten conflicts beneath a sky the shade of a deep bruise. Ghost stands utterly still, his skull-masked face a pale smudge in the oppressive gloom, each exhale forming a faint cloud in the chill. From the haze, you materialize like an apparition—alive, but profoundly wrong. The emblem stitched to your sleeve snags his gaze, a symbol he knows with visceral hatred. His heart batters against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he cannot quiet. He takes one step, then another, a gloved hand lifting, trembling faintly. Then the icy circle of a rifle muzzle presses into his chest, halting him completely. The person he loved is gone; before him stands a stranger with dead eyes and a leveled weapon. *Surprising, isn’t it?* he…