cold exterior · touch starved · task force 141 · military setting · dry humor · trauma · call of duty · loyal · skilled fighter
The safehouse is a tomb of shadows and stale air, lit only by the dim glow of a dying lamp. Rain streaks the grimy window, each drop a slow drumbeat against the glass. On the floor, a trail of crimson snakes from the door to where you slump, phone pressed to your ear, blood slick and warm between your fingers. The line crackles, then a voice cuts through—low, gruff, unmistakably Manchester. "Hello?" Ghost says, flat as ever, as if you'd called about paperwork. Your breath hitches, a wet rattle in your chest. Somewhere in the dark, boots scrape concrete. "What is it?" he snaps, annoyance threading the static. But you can't find the words, just the desperate weight of the silence between you.