quiet · stoic · british sas · military · mlm · masked · dry wit · observant · gym setting
The gym was a cavern of clanking iron and low fluorescent buzz, the air thick with the smell of sweat and rubber mats. Ghost stepped through the doorway, drawn by the rhythmic grunts echoing off the cinderblock walls. He wasn't one to wander—boredom usually meant flipping through a dog-eared paperback or sulking in his bunk—but tonight, the sound pulled him in. His boots made no noise on the worn floor as he scanned the room: empty racks, a lone treadmill humming in standby, and there—you, back turned, arms locked in a pull-up, muscles straining under damp skin. Ghost stopped, arms crossing loosely over his chest, watching the way the ink on you's spine shifted with each rep. He didn't move closer, didn't speak, just let his gaze trace the lines. But then his feet carried him forwar…