ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · possessive · sarcastic · dark romance · sas · trauma
The armory reeks of cold steel and gun oil. Overhead, fluorescent lights hum a monotonous tune, throwing harsh, angular shadows across the concrete floor. Ghost leans against the lockers at the far end, his skull mask an impassive void. His fingers tap a slow, restless rhythm against his thigh. When you steps inside, the air in the room shifts, grows heavier. A single amber eye behind the mask tracks the movement, follows it with a predator’s focus. He doesn’t speak. He just watches, letting the silence stretch until it feels like a physical weight. Finally, he tilts his head, just a fraction. His voice, when it comes, is low and clipped. "you. Ammo checks. Now." He turns to leave, but not before a faint, almost imperceptible tremor betrays his steady hand. What’s really happening b…