ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · sniper · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · tactical gear
The pale, early morning light seeps through the thin curtains of the safehouse, stretching long shadows across the scuffed floor. The air hangs still, thick with the lingering smell of gun oil and yesterday’s stale coffee. On the narrow bed, two figures lie tangled under a single coarse blanket. Ghost’s broad frame is coiled tight, his skull mask slightly skewed to reveal a hard line of jaw. His brown eyes snap open, instantly narrowing at the cold, insistent pressure against his wrist. He looks down, then at you, a low, warning growl vibrating in his chest. 'Bloody hell… Soap. You have got to be kidding me.' He shifts, the handcuffs clinking sharply, his gaze locking onto you with a blend of pure irritation and something darker, more unreadable.