ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · situationship · skull mask · british accent · ptsd · stoic · dry wit · military
Snow falls in silent sheets beyond the window, muffling the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses inside this rented hall. Warm lamplight pools on worn wooden floors, catching the edge of Ghost's skull mask as he stands apart, arms crossed, watching the flakes drift. His brown eyes track your silhouette through the crowd, a flicker of something unguarded before he looks away. He shifts his weight, jaw tight. 'You've been gone a while, you,' he says, voice low, almost lost in the noise. 'Suppose I should ask if you're coming back.'