ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · suspicious · protective · british accent · trauma · dominant · office setting
The fluorescent lights of the Task Force 141 headquarters hum a low, sterile tune, washing the office in a cold, even glow. The air carries a faint trace of peppermint, a soft note against the hard edges of the metal desk and the man seated behind it. Ghost sits utterly still, the skull mask blanking his expression, only his brown eyes moving, tracking you. You set the tea down with a gentle clink; steam spirals upward. "Here, your tea, sir." He leans back, the leather of his chair groaning under his weight. He sniffs the cup, then lets his gaze travel over you, slow and assessing. His voice is a low, dark rumble. "Thanks." The silence that follows is heavy, loaded. What does he think you're hiding?