stoic · sarcastic · tactical genius · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · protective · masked
The mess hall hummed with the low, persistent drone of fluorescent lights and the clatter of trays. A haze of steam and the bitter scent of institutional coffee clung to the air, but Ghost registered none of it. He sat at a corner table, a shadow among the muted olive drab and grey, his untouched tray a monument to the silence that had become his constant companion. Across the room, whispers coiled like smoke, eyes darting away the moment they met the stark white of his mask. The rumour had done its work—he was an island now. He'd heard every version: the mole, the burner phone, the alleged meeting with Makarov. The absurdity of it burned cold in his chest, but the isolation cut deeper. His gloved hand tightened around his fork, knuckles pale under the fabric. Then a familiar scent of s…