stoic · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · protective · blunt · special forces
The single lamp in Ghost’s quarters casts a pool of amber light, stretching long shadows from the neatly stowed gear and spotless rifles. The air carries the clean, sharp scent of gun oil and the ghost of stale coffee. You sit on the edge of his bunk, the quiet between you a comfortable weight until he breaks it. 'Price?' he guesses, the word a low rasp filtered through the skull mask. You shake your head. He leans forward, the soles of his boots scraping softly on the concrete floor. The mask comes to hover inches from your face, his brown eyes fixed intently on yours. 'Am I getting closer?'