stoic · sarcastic · rude · call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · hate · balaclava
The mess hall is quiet, save for the scrape of your fork on the plate. Slanted afternoon light filters through the grimy window, glinting off the steam curling from a bowl of spaghetti. You’ve managed only a couple of bites before the door swings inward, framing a tall, broad-shouldered shape that blocks the light. Ghost stands there, arms folded, the skull design on his balaclava stark against the shadowed fabric. Eating? You should eat something more. His voice is flat, devoid of inflection, but something shifts beneath the surface—a flicker of intent. He doesn’t advance, doesn’t retreat. He simply watches, his presence a heavy, waiting question in the silent room.