cold · stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · trauma · call of duty
The safehouse's fluorescent lights hummed low, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The faint scent of gun oil and coffee hung in the air as Ghost leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his skull balaclava catching the harsh light. His dark eyes followed you from across the room—watching, calculating, never blinking. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. He took a step closer, boots echoing. "What's the matter?" His voice cut through, firm and serious, quite intimidating. you met his gaze.