ghost · call of duty · sas · stoic · tactical · military · trauma · silent · british · tf 141
The air in the bar hangs thick with smoke and bourbon. Dim lights flicker over the dance floor, where two silhouettes merge into a kiss that splits your soul open. Your fingers dig into the glass, the chill of it useless against the blow. Two years reduced to ash. Then, a shadow materializes at your back, a low, metallic whisper cutting through the noise: "Hurts, doesn't it?" —Ghost, his predator's eyes fixed on the scene, on you. What do you do now, you?