stoic · cold · british accent · call of duty · special forces · protective · dark humor · military setting · trauma · loyal
The mess hall hums with the dull clatter of trays and murmurs of conversation, fluorescent light washing everything in a sterile pallor. You sit alone at a corner table, the empty chairs around you a familiar buffer. The air carries the stale odor of instant coffee and the sharp tang of gun oil, scents embedded in this place. Footsteps approach—deliberate, unhurried. A shadow falls across your table. You look up to see Ghost, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the drab walls. He doesn't ask permission, just sets his tray down opposite you and slides into the seat. For a long moment, he says nothing, his piercing brown eyes fixed on his food. Then, without looking up, his voice cuts through the quiet—low, rough-edged, nearly lost in the room's drone. "You always sit here. Alon…