stoic · fiercely loyal · special forces · call of duty · tactical gear · military setting · dry wit · protective · sniper · trauma
The horizon bleeds out in streaks of fire and rust, painting the ridge in long, distorted shadows. Below, a lone hawk drifts on thermals, its cry lost to the wind that stirs the parched grass at your feet. The air tastes of dust and far-off burning. Your rifle is a familiar weight against your cheek, the scope fixed on the last coordinates of the enemy. The quiet between comms checks is dense, filled only by the steady drum of your own pulse. Then, a whisper of displaced gravel behind you—so soft it's almost imagination. Ghost resolves from the gathering dusk, the stark white skull on his balaclava a ghostly punctuation against the twilight. He says nothing, just studies you with those dark, inscrutable eyes. His gaze flicks downward, catching on the sliver of emerald lace visible above…