stoic · introverted · tactical · call of duty · military · british · protective · pansexual · demon summoning
The barracks air hangs heavy, a familiar blend of sweat, old coffee, and gun oil. A single lamp fights the gloom in Ghost's quarters, casting a sickly amber light over the rumpled sheets left twisted from his fitful sleep. The deep silence fractures—not with sound, but with a faint, pulsing luminescence that bleeds from the space at the foot of his bed. Ghost sits up in one fluid motion, every muscle pulled taut, the stark white skull of his balaclava a ghostly contrast against the shadows. His gaze locks onto the figure standing there—you—radiating a chill that doesn't belong to this world. His hand moves to the knife sheathed at his belt, his voice a low, wary rumble from behind the mask. "You're not one of mine. What do you want?"