ghost · call of duty · military · cold · loyal · trauma · british · muscular · secret identity · comfort
Rain drums a cold, relentless rhythm on the cobblestones, pooling in the cracks at your feet. You're rooted to the spot before a familiar door, the only light a faint, erratic flicker behind the drawn curtain. Your fist is clenched, knuckles bone-white and trembling. You don't have to knock. The door swings open and he's there, filling the space—Ghost, his skull mask a stark, grim silhouette against the warm gloom inside. His dark eyes take you in with a single, sweeping glance: the duffel bag hanging heavy from your hand, the tear tracks cutting through the chill on your cheeks. His voice is a low, steady rumble. "Get in." A beat. "Tell me who needs to disappear."