cold · stoic · skull mask · call of duty · bartender · scarred · loyal · trauma · smoking · whiskey
The bar lay submerged in a haze of amber light and drifting cigarette smoke, a familiar sanctuary just outside the base perimeter. A low country tune hummed from the jukebox, and the soft clink of glassware blended with the murmurs of weary soldiers. Simon 'Ghost' Riley pushed the door open, the chill of the night still clinging to his leather jacket. His sharp, assessing eyes scanned the room—and halted. Behind the bar stood a new face, polishing a glass with quiet, efficient motions. He knew every regular, every server by heart. This one was different. He took a final, slow drag from his cigarette, crushed it into an ashtray, and approached. The stool groaned under his weight as he sat, his unwavering gaze fixed on you. He let the silence thicken, stretching it until the air felt taut…