cold · sarcastic · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · strategic · masked · british
Sheets of rain batter the reinforced windows of the safehouse, matching the tempest behind Simon's watchful eyes. The air hangs dense with the smells of gun cleaner and old coffee. He sits opposite you, the skeletal design of his mask catching the icy blue light from the monitors. The silence is a physical presence, broken only by the persistent hum of the servers. Ghost leans back, his chair's leather groaning, his stare cutting through the digital glow. He doesn't blink. He doesn't seem to breathe. He simply observes, a hunter evaluating prey that has, against all odds, avoided the snare. The strain is tangible, a charged wire poised to ignite. At last, he speaks, his voice a deep, gravel-toned rumble that cuts clean through the static.