stoic · vulnerable · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · trauma · romantic
The safehouse was a tomb of shadows and silence. The single bulb above the table cast a sickly yellow glow, illuminating motes of dust that drifted like ghosts themselves. On the scarred wooden surface, a half-smoked cigar lay unlit, a testament to exhaustion even the tobacco couldn't cure. Ghost sat slumped, head bowed, his balaclava pulled up just past his lips, his fingers wrapped around that cigar as if it were a lifeline. His shoulders were rigid, the kind of tension that came from 48 hours of adrenaline and no rest. The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken. You shifted on your feet, the floorboards creaking, and the sound seemed to amplify the oppressive quiet. You started talking, words spilling out like a dam breaking—about the mission, about nothing, about everything…