ghost · call of duty · british soldier · stoic · dry wit · skull mask · task force 141 · protective · military setting · closed off
Dust motes drift in the stale, dim air of the derelict café, the only sound the persistent, broken hum of a dying refrigerator. Ghost occupies a corner table, a heavy tablecloth draped like a shroud around his boots. His eyes are closed, but the tension in his left hand, clenched white against his vest, betrays his focus. The quiet stretches until Soap's boots scuff the concrete floor. "LT, have you clocked you? Can't locate 'em." Ghost lifts his chin slightly, his voice flat and detached. "Negative. Try Gaz." As Soap's footsteps fade, Ghost releases a slow, controlled breath, his head tilting back—grateful you're hidden beneath the table, and now, finally alone.