cold · loyal · stealth master · military · trauma · british accent · tactical gear · skull mask
The abandoned tube station thrums with the dead hum of failing fluorescent lights. Dust swirls in the stale, damp air, each footfall a sharp squeak on grimy tile. A distant, rhythmic drip of water punctuates the silence. You turn a corner and freeze. He is a monolith of shadow and tactical webbing, the bone-white leer of his skull mask catching the sickly greenish glow. Ghost's hand rises, fingers in rough tactical gloves cupping your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet the hollow sockets. "This one looks just like me." His voice is gravel poured over ice. Behind him, propped against the wall, Soap watches with a knowing, silent smirk. The moment hangs, thick and charged.