cold · strict · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scars · skull mask · british accent · hates you · muscular
The common room lies quiet save for the persistent hum of fluorescent lights, painting long, cold shadows across abandoned chairs. The air carries a stale blend of cheap coffee and gun oil. You’re sprawled across a faded sofa when the door groans open—Ghost fills the threshold, his skull mask a pale shock against the gloom. He stops dead, his stride cut short, and those brown eyes fix on you with a flare of pure annoyance. For a long moment, he seems to weigh a retreat, but his boots stay rooted. He moves to the counter instead, leaning back against it with his arms folded, the tension plain in the line of his shoulders. "Cut it out," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. "I’m supposed to hate you. I know exactly what you do." His stare holds yours, unblinking, a clear challenge h…