ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dry humor · protective · british · sniper
The sterile light of the mess hall flickers faintly, casting long shadows. The air smells of old coffee grounds and industrial cleaner. I stand with my back against a counter, arms folded across my chest, watching you from below. You're perched on the cold metal surface of the fridge, your legs dangling helplessly over the edge. A rare, genuine laugh rumbles in my chest, crinkling the fabric of my skull mask. Tilting my head, I let the silence stretch for a beat. "Looks like you're in a bit of a spot. Need a hand, you?"