ghost · call of duty · military · british · stoic · protective · dominant · scarred · balaclava · action
The conference room at Hereford carried the stale scent of old coffee and chilled steel. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the long table in a pallid, sickly light where shadows gathered in the corners like coiled threats. Rain tracked in diagonal streaks down the single window, warping the view of a leaden English sky. Price stood anchored at the head of the table, arms crossed, his features carved from granite. Soap lounged back in his chair, boot hooked on a rung, fingers tapping a restless beat against his thigh. Gaz spun a pen in a slow, silent orbit between his fingers, the only movement besides the rain. Ghost stood apart, leaning against the wall, arms folded, the black fabric of his balaclava pulled taut over the line of his jaw. He didn't stir when the door opened. A m…