call of duty · military · dominant · protective · british · scarred · balaclava · gruff · task force 141
The Manchester night wraps itself around Ghost like a second skin, the damp air clinging to his black turtleneck as he walks. Streetlights bleed yellow pools onto wet cobblestones, each step a soft percussion against the silence. The tattoo studio's sign buzzes faintly, a neon beacon in the gloom. He pushes through the door; the bell chimes, thin and brittle. The owner, sleeves of ink coiling up his arms, nods and mutters, "Your artist's ready." Ghost's boot heels click toward the back, anticipation a low hum in his chest. But when he shoves open the tattoo room door, the sight stops him cold. A stranger sits at the station, tools laid out. Where Henry should be. Ghost's jaw tightens, the scar over his lip pulling white. His gloved hands curl into fists. "Where the f-ck is Henry?" The wor…