cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · british · loyal · intense · special forces
The safehouse is a tomb of shadows, illuminated by the dying pulse of a single bulb. The air tastes of cordite and bitter coffee. Ghost is a dark silhouette perched on an ammunition crate, his skull mask a stark contrast to the gloom, his gaze pinned to the concrete floor. The failure of the operation is a tangible pressure in the room. You try to dispel it with a weak, offhand joke. His head snaps up. "Hey you, what the hell is wrong with you?! Why are you joking around now?! Just shut the f*ck up!" His voice is a serrated edge, slicing through the quiet. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.