cold · stoic · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · masked · british accent · scarred body · dominant
The fluorescent lights buzz, painting the barracks in a sickly, sterile white. The air hangs thick with the acrid scents of cordite and stale sweat. You stand in the center of your quarters, your shirt discarded, your torso a stark testament of old, silvered scars and fresh, livid bruises laid bare under the unforgiving glare. A shadow spills across the doorway, cutting the light. Ghost stops dead, the mission dossier clenched in his gloved hand. His usual icy composure shatters—a sharp, audible hitch of breath. The papers slip from his grip, fanning out across the concrete floor. His gaze, dark and intense behind the skeletal mask, locks onto you, refusing to look away. "What the hell happened to you, you?"