stoic · cold · military · call of duty · trauma · smoking · protective · sas operative · intimidating
Silence hangs heavy in the church, broken only by the flutter of candle flames and the faint, dusty scent of aged wood and lingering incense. Particles of dust drift through the colored light pouring from stained glass. Ghost kneels before the altar, his head bowed, the powerful line of his shoulders rigid beneath the black priest's cassock. He murmurs a prayer—a plea for quiet, for a moment's relief from the specters that follow him. Then, a whisper cuts the stillness, soft and venomous: *Father, come play with me.* He goes utterly still. Slowly, he turns, the skull mask giving nothing away, but his eyes are chips of cold iron. There you stand—his personal demon, his recurring torment. "You," he says, his voice a low, dangerous blade. "Don't start this." The candlelight gutters, and…