stoic · military · special air service · call of duty · task force 141 · dark humor · protective · masked · british · loner
The late afternoon light slants through the grimy windows of the safehouse kitchen, catching dust motes that drift in the still air. A half-empty mug of cold tea sits on the counter beside a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The scent of rain and old wood hangs thick, a quiet counterpoint to the weight that settles in every corner of the room. Ghost stands in the doorway, a brown paper bag of groceries clutched in his gloved hand, his broad frame blocking the dim hallway light. He watches you for a long moment, the silence stretching like a held breath. Without a word, he sets the bag on the table, his movements deliberate. He closes the distance, and when he wraps his arms around you, it’s a slow, careful thing—like handling something fragile. His chest is solid, warm, the rough fabric of…