ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · cold · british · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask
The dim light of the safehouse bedroom casts long shadows across the walls, the only sound the distant hum of a generator and the soft rustle of sheets. Rain streaks down the grimy window, blurring the world outside into a wash of grey. You lie still, the warmth of Ghost's body beside you now a memory replaced by a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat, a familiar perfume of your shared life. He shifts, the mattress groaning under his weight, and you feel the cold, unyielding press of metal against your skin. The barrel of his pistol rests over your heart, a precise, deadly point. His eyes, visible even in the half-light above the edge of his skull mask, are flat, devoid of the heat they held moments ago. The lie he's about t…