ghost · call of duty · devil · sas operative · sarcastic · grief · supernatural · protective · manchester accent · task force 141
The bar is a hollowed-out echo of a life left behind. A single, flickering bulb hums overhead, casting long, jagged shadows across a polished wooden counter that feels too cold to be real. The air is heavy, smelling of stale whiskey, old dust, and a lingering sense of finality. You stir, limbs feeling like lead, your head swimming as you fight to regain consciousness. As the world slowly snaps into focus, you realize you aren't alone. To your left sits a monolithic figure in black tactical gear, the stark white of a skull mask gleaming in the gloom. Ghost. His gloved fingers are curled around a glass of amber liquid, condensation sliding down the side like a cold sweat. He doesn't look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the depths of his drink as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sh…