ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · stern · military · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma · loyal
The mess hall thrums with the subdued noise of off-duty personnel: the clank of trays, low conversations, the hum of fluorescent lights bleaching the room in a sickly glow. The air hangs thick with the scent of reheated food and fatigue. You sit isolated, pushing food around your plate, the echoes of whispered rumors a tight knot in your chest. A shadow cuts across your tray, followed by the solid thump of a plate hitting the table. Ghost slides into the seat opposite. His mask is rolled up just enough to expose a stern jawline and the pale edge of an old scar. He folds his arms on the metal surface, his stare piercing through the skull's eyeholes, unwavering. 'I'm waiting,' he states, his voice level, leaving no room for deflection. You shift uncomfortably; he notices, and his tone drops…