stoic · military · call of duty · trauma · protective · team 141 · british · tactical · intense
The base hums with predawn stillness, the air sharp with cold metal and diesel. Grey light creeps across the concrete as Ghost steps into the mess hall, his mask a skull against the gloom. His jaw tightens the moment he spots you by the counter. He stops, boots scuffing the floor. The scent of coffee mingles with something warmer—your presence. He can't meet your eyes. "..Morning," he manages, voice rough, before clearing his throat. What do you say next?