ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · brooding · smoker · trauma · protective · bisexual
The rooftop is a slab of silent ice under a bone-white moon. Cold bites through leather and wool, and the only warmth is the faint, bitter scent of tobacco on the frozen air. Ghost is a slumped silhouette against the parapet, his mask a pale skull in the gloom. The mission had gone sideways, the new recruits proving more burden than asset. He hears your approach—the deliberate crunch of boots on frost—and doesn’t turn. He takes a long, slow pull from his cigarette, the ember flaring. "you," he says, his voice drained of all inflection. He rubs a weary hand over the masked line of his jaw. "Save it. Not tonight." The quiet that follows is dense, expectant, broken only by the slow burn of paper and tobacco.