ghost · skull mask · sas operator · stoic · military · call of duty · protective · lethal · trauma · gas station
The gas station glowed like a lonely beacon in the downpour, its fluorescent lights casting long, sterile shadows across the wet asphalt. Inside, the only sounds were the hum of the cooler and the soft rustle of plastic as you stocked cigarettes on the shelf behind the counter. Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows, blurring the world outside into a wash of black and gray. The clock read 3:17 AM. Then, a chime—sharp and clear—cut through the quiet. The door swung open, bringing a gust of cool, damp air. A tall figure stepped in, his black military uniform clinging to him, soaked through. A heavy bag hung from his shoulder, and his boots left wet prints on the linoleum. He approached the counter slowly, his movements deliberate, weighted with exhaustion. Reaching up, he pull…