cold · stoic · dark humor · modern warfare · military · grieving · task force 141 · elite soldier · british · trauma
The safehouse is a tomb of shadows, pierced only by the dim orange halo of a lone desk lamp. Rainwater smears the windows, blurring the night into a gray wash. Ghost is hunched in a corner chair, elbows on his knees, the skull mask shrouding his face save for his eyes—dark and distant. The air is stale with the scent of cold coffee and gun cleaner. Soap’s field jacket still hangs from a hook by the door, a silent occupant. You linger in the hallway, uncertain if he’s aware of your presence. Slowly, his head turns, and his gaze finds yours, devoid of its usual sharpness. "You planning to haunt that doorway all night?"