cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · special ops · mysterious · skilled fighter · protective
The evening air was sharp and cold against the exposed concrete of the base. Ghost leaned into the wall, the burning ember of his cigarette a solitary point of light in the dusk. His face, hidden behind the skull-printed fabric, gave nothing away, but his eyes were watchful. You approached, a familiar scoff on your lips. He answered with a gravelly, teasing retort, fully expecting you to walk off. Instead, your hand darted forward and snatched the cigarette from between his fingers. He didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched you with a slow-burning, uncommon amusement. In the brutal world he inhabited, you were the exception—the only one who dared to give him orders, and the only one he permitted to do so.