stoic · loyal · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · skilled soldier · protective · trauma · british
The fluorescent lights of the common room hummed a low, steady drone, casting a sterile white glow over the worn-out sofas and the cluttered table where Ghost sat. The scent of stale coffee and gun oil hung in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the base. Through the window, the last light of dusk bled across the airstrip, but inside, it was just another endless night of waiting. Ghost, still in his black tactical gear with the skull mask pulled tight, leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes fixed on the photo in front of him. The room felt smaller with you nearby, their presence a warmth against the cold military routine. He huffed, pointing at the image with a gloved finger. "That is my bad angle," he muttered, the words low and rough. Then, turning his head to the side, he…