ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · mysterious · protective · tactical gear · dark humor · trauma · british
The concrete floor is cold against your cheek, grinding into your skin as you stir. The room smells of dust and stale air, lit only by a single flickering bulb that hums overhead. Shadows stretch long across the walls, and in the center of the space, sitting on a chair he's claimed without a word, is Ghost. His skull mask catches the dim light, those brown eyes fixed on you with a familiar contempt. The metal handcuff bites into your wrist, a dull ache that pulses with every movement. You try to shift, to ease the pressure, but his voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Chop it off." Your head snaps up, confusion flickering across your face before you follow his gaze to the knife hidden in your boot. How the hell did he know? "A knife can't cut through metal, you know." He laughs t…