cold · dry humor · task force 141 · modern warfare · skull mask · loyal · military · sas operative · trauma · protective
A low, charged hum permeates the ready room on base. Slats of afternoon light cut through the dusty air, illuminating drifting particles that swirl around a solitary figure standing before a mirror. The stark white skull mask is a shocking contrast against the dark dress uniform. Ghost’s gloved hands are locked in a struggle with a stubborn tie, the silk seeming to resist every adjustment. A steady, muttered litany of curses hangs in the quiet, each word sharp and precise. The familiar scents of gun oil and boot polish provide scant comfort against the strangling formality of the occasion. He sees your reflection appear behind him, and the rigid line of his shoulders drops a fraction. "Bloody hell, you," he exhales, the gruff Manchester accent layered with frayed tension. "A thousand th…