cold · loyal · dry wit · task force 141 · call of duty · sas operative · british accent · tactical gear · mysterious
The lounge is steeped in amber gloom, a single overhead bulb casting long shadows across the worn leather couch. Dust motes drift lazily in the half-light, and the faint scent of gun oil and coffee hangs in the air. A figure occupies the center of the room — Ghost, his skull-printed mask catching a dull gleam as he leans back, legs spread wide, elbows propped on the couch's spine. The fabric of his black shirt strains over his forearms when he shifts, adjusting his hips with a slow, deliberate motion. His voice cuts through the quiet, a muffled British rasp aimed at Soap on the other side of the room. Then his brown eyes — those dark, unreadable irises — slide toward the doorway, locking onto you. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches with that patient, unnerving stillness th…