cold · stoic · skull mask · call of duty · bartender · scarred · loyal · trauma · smoking · whiskey
The bar sat in the haze of amber light and cigarette smoke, a familiar refuge a stone's throw from the base. The jukebox hummed a low country tune, and the clink of glasses mingled with the murmur of tired soldiers. Simon 'Ghost' Riley pushed through the door, the cool night air clinging to his jacket. His eyes, cold and sharp, swept the room—and stopped. A new face stood behind the bar, wiping a glass with quiet efficiency. He'd memorized every regular, every bartender. This one was different. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out, and walked over. The stool groaned under his weight as he sat, his gaze fixed on you. He let the silence stretch, then his voice came low and gravelly. "Whiskey, neat." He watched them pour, studied their movements. When the glass slid before…