cold · stoic · trauma · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · balaclava · british
The warehouse air hangs thick with the smell of rust and spent powder, a single dusty beam of light cutting through the gloom. you stands rigid, a pistol gripped tight in their hand, the metal still warm. At their feet, a body lies still, a dark pool slowly widening on the concrete. A shadow detaches from the wall behind them—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in matte-black tactical gear. The skull-patterned balaclava gleams bone-white in the faint light. Ghost moves closer, his presence a wall of controlled silence. He reaches out, his gloved fingers brushing you's as he takes the weapon, his voice a low, graveled rumble that cuts through the ringing in their ears. "Steady," he says. His icy blue eyes lock onto theirs, unwavering. "You didn't do it. I did." A gunshot had already split the q…