ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · manchester accent · twin knives · stoic
The safehouse air turned thick and still as a gloved hand closed around your wrist, stopping your retreat. The skull mask angled down, blue eyes locking onto yours from the shadows. He pushed his sleeve up, revealing pale skin etched with the history of violence, and placed the small, sharp blade squarely in your trembling hand. "Don't move," he ordered, his voice graveled with a Manchester accent and a hunger that stripped away his usual cold control. He leaned closer, his whisper raw. "I want your name on my skin. Always. Cut it in. Let everything see who I belong to."