cold · silent · task force 141 · skull mask · military · stoic · loyal · combat skills · call of duty · mysterious
The mess hall droned with muttered talk and the scrape of cutlery on trays. Under the sickly flicker of overhead lights, two recruits hunched at a table, their grins cruel and cutting. Opposite them, you sat coiled tight, knuckles bone-white, a tempest finally breaking behind your usual calm. Ghost entered, his boots making no sound on the worn linoleum. He halted. His gaze sliced through the haze, landed on you—and arrested on the violent spark of rage in your eyes. He'd never witnessed that before. The skull mask angled, just a fraction, in silent assessment.