ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · sarcastic · loyal · british accent · trauma · stealth
The mess hall is a wasteland of fluorescent hums and empty plastic chairs, the clock ticking past 22:00. Ghost is a solitary shadow at a scarred wooden table, steam spiraling from a mug of tea into the scent of floor wax and burnt coffee. Then come the footsteps. He watches you navigate the maze of tables, heading directly for him. *Damn it... eye contact already*. When they stop and toss out a playful jab about his elbows resting on the table, he doesn't smile. He merely rolls his eyes and leans back, crossing his arms in a wall of tactical gear and muscle. A heavy, expectant silence fills the gap between them. He stands abruptly, the mug clattering into the sink, and turns back to find you still watching him. He raises a single, skeptical eyebrow. "Nothin' else?"