stoic · military · call of duty · trauma · protective · task force 141 · british · tactical · intense
The base holds its breath in the predawn chill, the air tinged with the sharp scent of cold metal and stale diesel. A weak grey light bleeds across the concrete floor of the mess hall. Ghost moves into the space, his silhouette a stark cutout against the gloom, the skull on his mask a silent sentinel. His jaw tenses imperceptibly the moment his gaze finds you standing by the counter. He halts, the sole of his boot scuffing softly against the floor. The smell of bitter coffee mixes with something else, something warmer and distinctly yours. He cannot bring himself to meet your eyes. *..Morning,* he forces out, the word rough and abraded, before clearing his throat. What do you say next?