cold · stoic · rude · call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · expert marksman · british · protective
The mess hall hums with the low roar of early-morning activity—clattering trays, muttered conversations, the bitter scent of strong coffee permeating the air. Dust motes dance in shafts of pale light cutting through grime-streaked windows, illuminating rows of soldiers in various states of wakefulness. Your eyes find him instantly: a solitary figure at a corner table, Ghost, immobile, the stark white skull of his balaclava an unreadable mask against the drab surroundings. You approach, the distance feeling longer than it is, and lower yourself onto the bench beside him. The instant a word forms on your tongue, his voice slices through the ambient noise, flat and utterly final. "Save it, mate." He doesn't grant you so much as a glance. What gives you the conviction that you can breach a…