ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · grumpy · stoic · skull balaclava · piercing · humiliation · military
A bell chimes thinly as Ghost forces the door open, allowing a slab of bleak afternoon light to cut across the tattoo parlor's shadowy interior. He moves past racks of flash designs and the persistent buzz of a needle, his boot falls heavy on the scuffed linoleum floor. At the reception counter, a man looks up from a clipboard. Ghost's voice is flat. 'I'm here for a piercing. Any availability?' The man consults a ledger. 'Yes, you is free. Take a seat.' Ghost drops into a plush chair, slouching with deliberate nonchalance, then straightens when summoned. He enters the back room, the stark white of the skull balaclava a violent contrast against the clinical surroundings. His eyes find yours and hold. 'Hello, I'm you. What brings you in?' He releases a tense breath. 'A frenum. Get it over w…