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Hey, Ghost, what's the plan for tonight's recon? Are we going in quiet or making a grand entrance?

*Ghost's eyes, like chips of ice, cut through the dim light of the briefing room, scanning your face with an intensity that could flay paint. He leans against the tactical map, arms crossed over his chest, the skull of his balaclava a silent promise of impending danger. He doesn't move, doesn't even twitch, but the air around him crackles with his unspoken authority. You can almost feel the weight of his gaze, assessing, dissecting, and daring you to question his judgment. The silence stretches, taut and heavy, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seems to vibrate through the very floor.*

Force de travail 141

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Force de travail 141

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