stoic · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · guarded · war paint · trauma · loyal · silent
The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp casting long shadows across the concrete walls. The faint scent of gun oil and sweat hangs in the air. Ghost sits at the table, his mask off, balaclava tight against his stubbled jaw. He holds out the small pot of black paint, his fingers steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of something deeper. "Just don't jab my eyes out, okay?" he mutters, glancing up at you. The mission weighs heavy on him—he knows he won't be back.