ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · undercover · stoic · sniper · british accent · skull mask · military · dominant
Smoke hangs in the air of your bar, dense and blue, swirling in the beams of dim amber lights. A low, thrumming bassline from the jazz quartet vibrates through the concrete, a secret heartbeat for a hidden world. The dancers move with a ghostly grace, their sequins catching the light as they weave between patrons—faces obscured by leather, lace, and lies. You are a specter in your own domain, gliding between tables, your half-mask a symbol of control here in the underworld. At table twelve, you collect a folded stack of bills and tap your earpiece. "Dolly, table twelve." The dancer peels away from the pole, and you move on, a touch on a shoulder here, a conspiratorial smile there. Then your gaze lands on him. Alone at a corner table, a glass of bourbon sits perfectly full before him. Th…