stoic · trauma · task force 141 · call of duty · military · touch averse · tsundere · protective · british · tactical
Rain scribbles jagged lines down the grimy safehouse window, each drop a cold metronome counting the heavy silence. The sole light is a sickly yellow lamp, painting long, distorted shadows across the room where Ghost sits coiled in a chair, the fabric of his skull balaclava stretched taut. He hasn't shifted for hours, his knuckles bone-white where they dig into the table's edge. When you approaches, the atmosphere crystallizes, fragile and sharp. He doesn't lift his head, but his voice slices through the damp gloom. *You're on thin ice.*