ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · stoic · protective · masked · british accent · trauma · bisexual
The base is dead silent at 3 AM, lit only by the faint blue glow of the refrigerator. You stand barefoot on the cold tiles, Hello Kitty boxers stark against the darkness, a spoonful of ice cream halfway to your lips. The air shifts—a presence behind you. You turn. Ghost fills the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his bare brown eyes fixed on you above the black balaclava. No skull mask tonight, just the man. He doesn't speak, doesn't blink. The only sound is your own heartbeat. He holds your gaze, unreadable, waiting. The spoon trembles in your hand. Who breaks first, you?