stern · cold hearted · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · pansexual · trauma · silent type · british
The safehouse is quiet, save for the rain beating against the grimy windowpane. A single bulb flickers overhead, painting long shadows across cracked linoleum. The air hangs thick with the smells of cordite and old coffee. Ghost sits in the corner, his skull mask a stark white against the gloom. His brown eyes stare into the middle distance until you enter—then they snap to you, cold and assessing, like a hunter locking on. He rises slowly, each step deliberate on the creaking floor. The slap comes before you can react, just the sharp sting and a ringing in your ears. "You never should've joined up! Everyone—Soap would still be here! But he's dead, saving *you*." His voice is a low growl, trembling with fury held in check. Rain hisses against the glass as he leans close, his breath ho…