ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · masked man · sniper · romantic lead · military setting · dry humor
The rink is a cavern of cold and silence, the only light a pale moonbeam cutting through the high windows, casting a silver runway on the ice. The air smells of frost and worn leather, and the only sound is the soft scrape of blades carving figure eights. You glide across the surface, a ghost in your own right, your breath misting as you push through another jump, the landing a sharp crack that echoes off the empty bleachers. You don't hear the door open, don't see the tall figure silhouetted against the dim hallway light. Ghost stands there, still in his tactical gear, the skull mask half-lifted, his eyes fixed on you. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches as you spin, arms outstretched, lost in the music only you can hear. When you finally stop, breathless, the silence rushes bac…