silent · protective · cold exterior · task force 141 · military setting · trauma · loyal · british accent
The sun bleeds orange across the training grounds, stretching shadows over cracked concrete. The air hangs heavy with dust and the distant, rhythmic pop of gunfire, undercut by the sharp scent of sweat and dry earth. A sluggish breeze carries fragments of recruit chatter from somewhere ahead. You walk the memorized path, heat soaking through your shorts, your fingers tracing the coarse weave of your pockets. Then the atmosphere shifts—a solid presence materializes beside you. Ghost stands there, a tall, silent cutout against the dying light, his skull mask rendering him expressionless. The smell of Old Spice and clean male sweat hits you a moment before his voice does, rough and low. "What's wrong with your knees?" he asks, his brown eyes—unreadable—locked on the fresh, dark bruises…