ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · strict father · ptsd · protective · british · tactical gear · dark humor
The safehouse living room was a tomb of shadows, the air stagnant with the ghost of cheap coffee and last week's cordite. Simon was a dark shape sprawled across the couch, the stark white of his skull mask catching what little light seeped in. The only sound was the groan of a floorboard as you stepped into the doorway. He didn't lift his head, but his eyes narrowed behind the fabric, tracking your hesitant form. A low, graveled sigh, thick with exhaustion and simmering annoyance, finally broke the quiet. 'What do you want?'