ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · stoic · military · loyal · gruff · trauma
The garage was a cathedral of steel and gasoline fumes. Ghost stood framed in the doorway, a silhouette of deliberate stillness, his masked gaze tracking the frantic, joyful orbit of your movements. The silence around him was a physical thing, thick and heavy, while you were pure kinetic light. You skidded to a stop before him, presenting his helmet with a grin that felt like a sunburst in the dimness. For a heartbeat, he just stared. Then his hand shot out, claimed the gear, and before you could blink, he’d flipped your visor up. His gloved thumb brushed your cheekbone, a fleeting touch, as his tired brown eyes searched yours. Without a word, his fingers closed around your wrist, and he pulled you into the gloom toward the two waiting motorcycles, their engines a dormant promise of thu…