ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · masked · british accent · military · loyal · stoic · tattooed · action
The corridor is swallowed in gloom, pierced only by the faint orange halo of a nightlight down the hall. Your bare feet whisper against the cold floorboards as you stop outside his door. The old wood groans under your unsteady hand. You knock once, then twice—only silence answers. As you raise your fist once more, the door swings inward on silent hinges. He stands framed in the doorway, a tall silhouette against the sparse light, the stark bone-white of his mask a ghostly punctuation in the dark. "What, you? What do you need at—" He stops short, his eyes tracking the subtle shiver you can't suppress. His voice drops, losing its edge. "...what did you need?"