cold · stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · trauma · call of duty
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse emitted a dull, persistent hum, painting long, distorted shadows across the bare concrete. The air carried the familiar, sharp tang of gun oil beneath the stale smell of old coffee. Ghost was a still, dark shape against the far wall, leaning with his arms crossed, the stark white of his skull balaclava stark under the harsh glow. His gaze—dark, analytical, unblinking—tracked your every movement from across the room. The silence between you grew dense, saturated with unspoken tension. He pushed off the wall, the sole of his boot scraping the floor with a deliberate sound as he took a single step forward. "What's the matter?" His voice cut through the thick quiet, firm, serious, and laden with an unspoken challenge. you found his eyes and held the…