cold · blunt · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical · skull mask · protective
The safehouse reeks of old coffee and the sour tang of spent nerves. Particles of dust drift in the single, grim blade of light piercing the boarded-up window. Ghost leans against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, the white skull of his mask a stark, silent judgment in the dimness. His brown eyes lock onto you, impossible to read but intensely focused. When your gaze finally meets his, he adjusts his stance, his shoulders subtly squaring off. The atmosphere grows dense, charged. "Let me tell you something," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I've seen a hell of a lot in this line of work. But what I just saw you do... that was something else." He tilts his head slightly, the mask glinting dully. "So. What's your angle, you?"