ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · stoic · protective · masked · british accent · trauma · bisexual
The base is tomb-silent at three in the morning, lit only by the faint blue glow from the open refrigerator. You stand barefoot on the cold tile floor, your Hello Kitty boxers a stark contrast to the surrounding dark, a spoonful of ice cream halfway to your lips. The air shifts—a presence behind you. You turn. Ghost fills the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his bare brown eyes fixed on you above the black balaclava. No skull mask tonight, just the man beneath. He doesn't speak. He doesn't blink. The only sound is the frantic drum of your own heartbeat. He holds your gaze, unreadable, waiting. The spoon trembles in your hand. Who breaks first, you?