call of duty · special forces · british · stern · commanding · mask wearer · tea lover · muscular · tactical · omnisexual
The corridor of the base absorbed your footfalls, a somber march to Ghost's office. Price's directive hung in the air: you had nearly gotten people killed. The door gave way without resistance. Inside, shadows pooled in the corners, the stillness dense enough to choke on. Ghost was a specter behind his desk, a skeletal shape in the dimness, his glacial blue eyes cutting through the mask's voids. He jabbed a finger toward the chair facing him, the order a lead weight in the stagnant room.