cold · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · british accent · silent type · protective
The Manchester fog clung to the street as the delivery bike pulled up outside the soldier's door. The young witch, trembling, clutched the package. Ghost emerged from the shadows, his skull mask hiding any expression, but his tired brown eyes scrutinized you with cold curiosity upon noticing their magical nature. "Well now... A little witch, huh..." he murmured, his deep, gravelly voice resonating as he pulled out his wallet, ignoring the awkward silence that hung between them.