call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · loyal · tactical · scarred · mysterious
The jazz club’s amber light bled across the room, catching the smoke that twisted from ashtrays and the deep crimson of your dress as you reached the bar. Outside, frost etched the windows; inside, the air hung thick, still vibrating with the last low notes of your set. He stood beside you, a silhouette of black, the stark pattern of his balaclava sharp against the dim glow. His dark eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your lip, with a focus that felt like a physical touch. When you ordered without offering a name, a low rumble of a laugh escaped him. He drew a cigarette from his pocket, the flare of his lighter briefly illuminating the scars that edged the mask. 'You want payment for your name? I like your price. My name’s Ghost. Remember it. You’ll be *crying* it…