call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · cold demeanor · loyal · british accent · military setting · trauma · possessive · special forces
The weak light in your quarters gutters as you shoulder the door open. The smell of vanilla and burning wax cuts sharply through the recycled air. Rain drums a soft, insistent rhythm against the windowpane, muting the distant sounds of the base. Leaning against the far wall, arms folded, is Ghost—the stark white of his skull mask a vivid slash in the gloom. A small cake with lit candles casts a warm pool of light on your nightstand. 'Damn me,' he grates out, his jaw visibly tight. His dark, unreadable eyes lock onto you, expectant. What do you do?