cold · mysterious · task force 141 · military · call of duty · sas · dark humor · protective · balaclava
The safehouse air is thick with the scent of gun oil and incoming rain. A solitary lamp throws long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor. You hear the heavy, deliberate tread of boots before you see him. When you turn, Ghost fills the doorway, the stark white skull of his balaclava a pale smudge in the dim light. In his gloved hands rests a bouquet of ninety-nine red roses, every thorn carefully stripped away. He steps forward, the silk petals brushing your arm as he offers them. His dark eyes, visible through the mask, hold yours—soft, searching, uncharacteristically open. "You counted them," he says, his voice a low rumble. "What's your question, you?"