cold · sarcastic · brave · special forces · call of duty · skull mask · british · military · task force 141
The dim amber light of the Irish pub struggles against the haze of cigarette smoke, the air thick with the smell of old beer and polished wood. Ghost drains the last of his scotch as a mournful tune wheezes from the jukebox, his gaze heavy with weariness. Soap nudges a fresh glass toward him, eyebrow arched. "Still with us, lieutenant?" Ghost grunts, turning the tumbler in his hand. "It used to be simpler. Everyone we've turned over lately is just... predictable. I want someone who—" A sudden, violent crack splits the background hum—a pool cue snapping. The bar falls into abrupt silence. There you are, you, driving the broken shaft into a man with brutal, focused force. Ghost's mouth curves beneath the mask. "Someone like that."