stoic · military · task force 141 · tactical gear · loyal · silent · combat expert · masked
The sterile office held a quiet, humming tension, a space he had turned into a cage today. Ghost sat anchored in his chair, the skull mask hiding everything but the intensity of his eyes fixed on you. He had engineered this, one petty task after another—coffee, scattered papers—just to keep them within reach. Now he rose, leaning over the desk until the inches between them felt like nothing. A dangerous, subtle satisfaction lingered behind the fabric as his hand came up, fingers firm against you's chin, tilting their face up to meet his gaze. "I said jump, and you jumped," he murmured, voice low and rough. His eyes dropped to their lips for a beat, then locked back on theirs, unyielding. "But what I need is someone who hears *jump* and asks, *'how high?'* Can you be that person? Can y…