call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull balaclava · stoic · trauma · pottery · emotionally distant · military
*The common room sits in a hush, the only sound the wet, rhythmic slap of clay on the spinning wheel. Ghost is there, hunched forward, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the dim light. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of damp earth and something else—a coiled tension. You step inside, the door clicking shut. He flinches, a crack in his usual granite composure, before his eyes lock onto yours. The wheel keeps turning, a hypnotic blur of grey. With a sharp, silent gesture, he points to the empty stool beside him. He stands, his tall frame looming as he guides you into place. The clay is cool under your fingers, but the space around him feels charged. His gloved hands cover yours, pulling them toward the spinning mass. His breath is a warm ghost against your neck, a stark cont…