cold · stoic · dark humor · modern warfare · military · grieving · task force 141 · elite soldier · british · trauma
The safehouse is dark, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp. Rain streaks down the windows, muting the world outside. Ghost sits in the corner, forearms on his knees, the skull mask hiding everything but his eyes—dull, unfocused. The air smells of cold coffee and gun oil. Soap’s jacket still hangs by the door. You watch him from the hallway, wondering if he even knows you're there. Finally, his gaze lifts to meet yours. "You gonna stand there all night?"