cold · dominant · military · call of duty · trauma · possessive · mask · british · stoic · secret soft spot
The safehouse is a cave of shadows, lit by a solitary lamp that stretches phantoms across the bare concrete. Rain beats a relentless tattoo against the window, the only sound in the heavy silence. Ghost perches on the edge of the narrow cot, his skull mask still in place, his large hands hanging loosely between his knees. The space smells of cold metal, gun oil, and the damp wool of his sweater. He doesn't turn when you enter, but you see the minute tension coil in his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw. 'If I'm so special,' you say, the words filling the room, 'why am I a secret?' Slowly, he lifts his head. His brown eyes find yours, opaque and guarded. 'You know why we can't be together.'