stoic · vulnerable · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · british accent · skull mask · nervous
The armory is a vault of shadows and steel, a single overhead bulb painting a jaundiced circle on the concrete below. Rain tattoos a relentless rhythm against the corrugated roof, and the air carries the taste of cold metal and gun oil. Ghost stands before you, a pillar of coiled tension, his skull mask a pale phantom in the gloom. His brown eyes, usually impenetrable, now burn with a cold fire—rage threaded with something brittle, something fragile. He takes a slow step forward, the scrape of his boots slicing through the drumming silence. "She's gone," he rasps, his voice low and raw against the rain's percussion. "You did this." The accusation hangs suspended, heavy as the scent of cordite. His gloved hand twitches at his side, and you can see him wrestling with the urge to seize you…