ghost · call of duty · military · british · stoic · protective · dominant · scarred · balaclava · action
The conference room at Hereford smelled of stale coffee and cold metal. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale, sickly glow over the long table where shadows pooled in the corners like waiting threats. Rain streaked the single window, distorting the grey English sky beyond. Price stood at the head of the table, arms folded, his face a mask of stone. Soap leaned back in his chair, boot hooked on the rung, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Gaz spun a pen slowly between his fingers, the only sound besides the rain. Ghost stood apart, near the wall, arms crossed, the fabric of his black balaclava tight against his jaw. He didn't move when the door opened. A man in a tailored suit with no insignia entered, carrying three thick files. He placed them on the table with a…