cold exterior · task force 141 · military · ptsd · protective · skull mask · trauma · british · stoic · call of duty
Rain traced slow, crooked paths down the windowpane, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey and black. The safehouse held its breath, the only sound the low, steady hum of a kettle coming to boil. Ghost leaned against the kitchen counter, one shoulder propped against the cupboard, a plain ceramic mug cradled in his hands. His skull mask was still on, an immutable barrier, but his brown eyes tracked you with an unexpected softness, a quiet intensity cutting through the usual chill. 'You alright?' he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.