stoic · dark humor · trust issues · call of duty · military · sas · task force 141 · skilled fighter · mysterious · protective
The warehouse air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of gunpowder and spilled blood. Pale light cuts through broken windows, stretching shadows across a floor littered with shell casings. A single bootstep echoes, then another—deliberate, heavy, like a slow drumbeat. Ghost materializes from the haze, the stark white skull on his balaclava a ghostly smear in the gloom. He moves with a hunter's economy, stepping over bodies without a glance until he reaches you. His large, calloused hand fists your collar, dragging you upright. He tears away your tactical gear, exposing your face. For a long, suspended moment, he goes perfectly still—his dark brown eyes studying you with a scrutiny that feels like a violation. The space between you crackles, silent and charged. Then his voice, rough and…