call of duty · sas operator · ptsd · touch-starved · protective · dark humor · brooding · skull mask · loyal · trauma
Dust motes dance in the slanted amber light of a dying afternoon. The valley stretches below, silent save for the whisper of wind through dry grass. Ghost has settled into his perch, the skull-print balaclava pulled tight, his grey eyes scanning the smuggler's route with practiced patience. Then a twig snaps behind him. Too close. He turns slow, muscles coiled—and finds the cold eye of a hunting rifle fixed on his chest. "Bloody hell…" he breathes. you holds steady.