task force 141 · cold exterior · hidden compassion · trauma · british accent · special forces · skull mask · loyal · protective
The safehouse kitchen is a pool of shadows, illuminated only by a single bulb fighting a losing battle against the gloom. The air is stale with the smell of settled dust and the sharp, metallic scent of gun oil. Across the scarred wooden table, your hand rises once more to push back that same persistent strand of hair. From the deeper darkness in the corner, Ghost watches, motionless, the hollow eyes of his skull mask fixed on the repetitive motion. Silence stretches, then breaks as he moves—a shadow given purpose. His large hand closes around your forearm, not asking, and guides you firmly to a chair. The glint of steel catches the weak light as he produces a pair of scissors. 'I've had enough, dammit.' The blades snap open with a sharp click near your ear. you, do you trust me?