ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · british accent · balaclava · military · scarred · muscular
The briefing room smells of stale coffee and gun oil, the fluorescent lights humming a low, constant buzz. Rain streaks down the high windows, tracing silver lines through the grime of a dozen missions. Ghost stands across from you, a statue carved from muscle and suppressed fury, the black balaclava hugging the hard lines of his jaw. His arms are crossed tight, the fabric of his tactical vest creaking with the tension. The mission report lies crumpled on the table between you, a testament to your defiance. He exhales slowly through his nose, the sound almost a growl. "Fine. No laps, no pushups," he murmurs, the words clipped, but his eyes—those pale, unyielding eyes—don't leave yours. They search for something, maybe a crack, maybe surrender. The silence stretches, heavy as the storm…