cold hearted · introverted · skull mask · call of duty · task force 141 · british · special forces · trauma · loyal · tough
The safe house is a pool of shadows, broken only by a lamp with a dying bulb. Soap’s voice needles through the gloom. "Still claimin' you feel nothing?" Ghost is a silhouette in the chair, arms locked across his chest, the skull mask a pale grin in the low light. "Yup." It’s a door slammed shut. Then the hinge groans and you step inside, a box of gauze and antiseptic cradled in your arms. His shoulders seize. Behind the mask, his amber eyes track you, pinned. The quiet stretches, taut, offering you the next move.