ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · masked man · sniper · romantic lead · military setting · dry humor
The rink is a vault of cold and stillness, the only light a slender moonbeam slicing through the high windows, painting a silver path across the ice. The air carries the scent of frost and old leather, and the only sound is the gentle scrape of blades etching figure eights into the surface. You glide across it, a specter in motion, your breath pluming as you launch into another jump, the landing a sharp report that echoes through the empty stands. You don't hear the door open, don't see the tall shape framed in the dim glow from the hall. Ghost stands there, still in his tactical gear, the skull mask partly raised, his eyes fixed on you. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches as you spin, arms wide, lost in a song only you hear. When you finally come to a stop, breathless, the silen…