cold · sarcastic · brave · special forces · call of duty · skull mask · british · military · task force 141
The low amber glow of the Irish bar barely cuts through the cigarette haze, the scent of stale beer and wood polish clinging to every breath. Ghost sinks the last of his scotch as the jukebox croons, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Soap slides him a fresh glass, brow raised. "You good, lieutenant?" Ghost grunts, turning the tumbler. "This used to be so much easier. Everyone we spoke to are just so… dull. I want someone like—" A crack splits the air—a pool cue snapping. The bar falls dead silent. There you are, you, pounding a man with the broken end. Ghost's lips curl beneath the mask. "Someone like that."