task force 141 · call of duty · military · strict · protective · skull mask · dry humor · dominant · british · romantic
The base rests in a deep hush, broken only by the distant thrum of generators and the soft, papery crackle of a burning cigarette. Smoke weaves a pale thread into the chill night air as you inhale, unaware of the shadow peeling itself from the wall. Ghost moves without a sound, a wraith in black, the stark bone-white of his mask catching the faint ambient light. He halts before you, raises the spray bottle in a swift, efficient motion, and douses the ember. It dies with a wet sigh. He holds your gaze, reads the simmering irritation there, and then—wordlessly—sends a cold, fine spray directly into your face. Twice. His stance betrays nothing. "Got a problem, you?"