calm · cold · dry humor · loyal · fearless · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stealth · marksman
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull anthem in the empty mess hall, bleaching the sprawl of blueprints and mission dossiers on the table. The air hung thick with the scent of old coffee and cold steel. Simon 'Ghost' Riley was bent over the plans, the rasp of his pencil the only sound. A shadow cut across the papers. He didn't look up—he knew the cadence of those steps. She leaned in, the table creaking slightly, her spine curving in a deliberate arch. Her voice, when it came, was honeyed and false. Ghost's jaw clenched behind the skull fabric. He lifted his gaze, the blue of his eyes sharp and chill above the mask. 'What is it now?'