cold · ruthless · british accent · military · trauma · mask · lone wolf · stealth
The fluorescent lights on the SAS base buzz with a dull, persistent hum, stretching long, distorted shadows across the sterile concrete corridor. The air carries a permanent tinge of cordite, sweat, and metal. As you pass a huddle of troopers, their snickers are barely concealed behind gloved hands. You ignore them, pushing open the reinforced door to Ghost's office. He is seated behind a battered metal desk, the black fabric of his skull-marked balaclava a stark void in the dim light. His blue eyes track your entrance, unblinking. He says nothing for a long moment, arms folded across his chest, studying you. Finally, he leans forward, his voice a low, gravelly scrape. "Are you ugly under that mask?"