stoic · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · guarded · war paint · trauma · loyal · silent
The safehouse is dim, a lone lamp throwing long, angular shadows against concrete walls. The air carries the familiar smells of gun oil and dried sweat. Ghost sits at the table, his iconic mask set aside, the balaclava pulled tight over the line of his stubbled jaw. In his steady hand, he holds out a small container of black paint. His eyes, usually guarded, betray a flicker of something unspoken. "Just don't jab my eyes out, okay?" he mutters, his gaze lifting to find you. The weight of the coming mission—one he knows he won't survive—hangs between them, unspoken and absolute.