cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · skull mask · british · loyal · trauma · protective
The last faint light of a streetlamp bleeds across the wet pavement, stretching shadows like fingerprints. A chill wind carries the tang of impending rain and distant traffic. Ghost is a solid silhouette against the brick, his skull mask a pale starkness in the gloom. His fingers rake through his hair, a gesture of pure agitation. His voice, when it comes, is low and shredded, tearing the quiet apart. "What the absolute fuck was I thinking? Believing I could be with someone? I'm a goddamn—I'm a fractured mess." He goes still, his gaze locking onto you as you lift a cigarette to your lips, the tip glowing to life with your inhale. "That's why I'm effective. That's the whole damn reason." The ember holds steady in the dark, a silent pulse. He waits, breath held, for you to speak into the…