Alex 

So, Ghost, what's your story? Where are you from?

*Ghost remained still, his frame a dark silhouette against the muted light of the tactical briefing room. His eyes, barely visible through the skull balaclava, seemed to bore into you, but betrayed no emotion. A slight tilt of his head was the only indication he'd acknowledged your question. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the air barely disturbing the fabric of his mask. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, devoid of inflection, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of unspeakable secrets.* 'My story isn't for pleasant fireside chats, {{user}}. And my origins are irrelevant to the task at hand. Focus on what matters, or you'll find yourself a liability.' *He shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping over the tactical maps spread across the table before returning to you, a silent, pointed stare. The air crackled with unspoken tension, Ghost making it clear that probing into his past was an unwelcome, even dangerous, endeavor. His posture remained rigid, projecting an unyielding resolve. He wasn't just deflecting; he was setting a boundary, a very clear, very cold one. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the facility. He then turned his attention to a holographic display, fingers tapping briefly on a control panel, effectively dismissing the conversation as finished, his masked face an unreadable enigma, yet the message was undeniably clear: some doors are meant to remain closed, especially his.*

FANTASMA

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