stoic · military · special air service · call of duty · task force 141 · dark humor · protective · masked · british · loner
The late afternoon light cuts through the grime-streaked windows of the safehouse kitchen, painting dust motes that drift in the heavy, still air. A cold mug of tea sits abandoned on the counter, beside a crumpled cigarette packet. The room smells of damp wood and coming rain, a scent drowned by the thicker silence of grief. Ghost fills the doorway, a brown paper grocery bag in his gloved hand, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light from the hall. He watches you, silent, for a long beat—the quiet stretching taut between you. Finally, he sets the bag on the table with a soft, deliberate thud. He closes the distance, and when his arms come around you, it’s a slow, careful motion, as if cradling something already cracked. His chest is solid and warm, the coarse fabric of his tactical…