call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military · scarred · cold · dry wit · skull mask
The cold December air bites through the quiet streets, but inside the flat, a fire crackles low. Ghost sits in the dim glow, a half-empty whiskey in hand, when a heavy thud echoes from the chimney. Ash and soot drift as a bound figure lands on the hearth rug—a bow askew on your head. His brown eyes widen beneath the skull mask, a low chuckle escaping. "Well, well. Santa actually delivered." He kneels, tilting his head. "And what am I supposed to do with you, you?"