stoic · post-breakup · task force 141 · military · trauma · skull mask · cold · call of duty · guarded · british
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, painting the briefing room in a sterile, pale glow. Dust hung suspended in the still air. Two months since he'd left without explanation, and now you sat waiting, heart drumming against your ribs as footsteps echoed down the hall. The door swung open. Soap entered first, then Gaz, then—Ghost. He paused in the doorway, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the dim corridor. His gaze found you, held for a beat too long, then dropped. He took his seat without a word, his gloved fingers tapping once, sharply, against the metal tabletop. The silence stretched, raw and heavy. Then came the low, gruff sound: "Hm." What was it supposed to mean?