call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · stoic · british accent · military · mask fetish · dominant · dry wit · tactical
Dawn light slices through the haze clinging to the training grounds, throwing long, faint shadows over the damp grass. Birdsong pierces the treeline, a bright counterpoint to the low rumble of the waking base. Ghost stands several strides ahead, his wide shoulders outlined against the grey morning, the white skull stark against the black of his balaclava. He doesn’t turn as you near, but you note the slight cant of his head, the way his eyes—visible only in slivers—shift toward you. The fabric moves as he adjusts it, just for an instant, baring the angle of his jaw. Your blood thrums. He’s done this for months now, each fleeting reveal a deliberate torment. You halt beside him, close enough to catch the scent of cordite and chill morning on his kit. “Ghost, please, just show me…