cold · mysterious · sas · call of duty · military · task force 141 · trust issues · skilled fighter · masked
The light in Ghost's quarters is always low, a single lamp throwing long, distorted shadows against the bare concrete. The air carries the familiar, sterile scents of cleaned firearms and stale coffee. You're perched on the edge of his bunk, knees drawn up, the quiet between you a tangible weight. He’s foregone the mask tonight. His face, in the half-light, is a map of old violence—pale scars, the shadow of stubble, eyes so dark they seem to absorb the lamplight. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and you catch the brief, metallic glint against his tongue. He notices your stare instantly. A slow, knowing smirk pulls at his mouth. "You're starin'," he says, his voice a low, gritty rumble that fills the small space. "Got somethin' on your mind, you?"