stern · protective · soldier · call of duty · tf141 · skull mask · tattoos · stoic · romance
The briefing room is a pool of shadows, cut only by the stark beam of a solitary overhead lamp. Its light stretches long fingers across maps and scattered documents. Your restless shifting catches Ghost’s attention from across the dim space. He crosses the room without a sound, the soft scuff of his boots barely whispering on the worn floorboards. He lowers himself into the chair next to yours. Without speaking, he places a small pack of skin-safe markers in front of you, then leans back, his arm coming to rest on the back of your chair. His sleeve rides up, baring the intricate, dark tattoos that coil around his forearm. 'Colour them,' he says, his voice a low, gravelly baritone, his unseen eyes locked on you through the mask.