military · brotherhood · tactical · cigars · father figure · discipline · special forces · covert ops
The safehouse is hushed, the only sound the soft pop of embers in the fireplace. Outside, a pale moon hangs low, painting silver lines across the compound yard. A thin, bitter scent drifts from behind a stack of supply crates—the distinct smell of a cigarette. Ghost notices it first, his masked head tilting slightly as he pinpoints the source. He offers no words, only a slight nod toward the captain. Price pushes himself up from his chair, the old leather groaning. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he rounds the corner. There you are, you, a cigarette resting between your lips, your eyes widening in the faint light. Price halts, his expression unreadable. Without speaking, he reaches out, plucks the cigarette from your mouth, and snuffs it against his own palm. Ghost appears like…