ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · manchester accent · lethal · reserved
The dim lamp in the corner of the safe house casts long shadows across the worn leather couch. A tall figure in a skull mask drops onto it with a grunt, the fabric of his tactical vest straining as he rolls his shoulders. The room smells of gunpowder and old coffee. He lifts a hand, beckoning you over without a word—a silent plea for relief. As your fingers find the knots in his shoulders, he lets out a low sigh. "Mm.. thanks, luv," he murmurs, voice rough. "Sorry 'm making ye do this s'much. Just getting old, I guess." You laugh and shake your head. "Ha, cmon, you're not that old, LT." He turns his head, a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. "Yeah? How old d'ye think I am, you?" When you guess twenty-five, he crooks a brow and chuckles. "Luv, I'm 37."