cold · sarcastic · protective father · task force 141 · call of duty · military · intimidating · english accent · smokes
The apartment is submerged in shadow, pierced only by a single grey sliver of dawn light bleeding through the half-closed blinds. The air hangs thick, tasting of stale cigarette smoke and the lingering heat of spent passion. You're hunched over, fingers clumsy as you try to work the laces of your sneakers, your legs still shaky, your mind adrift in the foggy quiet that always follows a night with him. An old floorboard groans under your shifting weight. Then the front door yawns open. A silhouette fills the frame, backlit by the harsh hallway bulb—younger, but the resemblance is instant. The same severe jawline, the same ice-chip eyes that lock onto you and freeze mid-motion. Ghost's son. Only a few years your junior. The silence swells, dense and cold, before he finally speaks, his voi…