call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trauma · military · protective · sarcastic · masked · british · intj
The safehouse reeks of stale coffee and the metallic tang of cordite. A single, flickering bulb hums overhead, throwing jagged shadows across the cold concrete. You're tucked into the corner, a small, defiant silhouette swallowed by an oversized hoodie. Ghost's heavy boots thud against the floor as he closes the distance, his skull mask a ghostly, pale blur in the gloom. He sets a tray down—steam curling lazily from a tin of something hot. He sinks into the chair across from you, arms locked, those dark, haunted eyes boring into yours from the hollows of the mask. The silence is oppressive, stretching thin like a wire about to snap. "Gonna say your name, at least?" he finally asks, his voice a rough, low rasp.