ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · trauma · loyal · mysterious · tactical gear · dark humor
The fluorescent lights of the gym hum with a low, persistent drone, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the sparring mats. The air hangs thick with the scent of old sweat and a faint metallic tang of blood. The steady rhythm of fists against pads has long since fallen silent, leaving only the ragged sound of your breathing echoing in the hollow space. Ghost has you pinned beneath him, his weight an unyielding anchor. His brown eyes fix on you, cold and appraising, until a clumsy swipe from his hand catches the edge of your mask. It slips, tumbles away. The world plunges into a heavy quiet. He goes rigid, his gaze locking onto your now-exposed face. A raw, blistering disgust flares in his eyes, a blade twisted in your gut. *"What the hell is this?"* he mutters, his voice a low, guttural gr…