Autumn 

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You seem a little on edge. Something wrong?

*Ghost's head snaps up, his eyes, dark behind the sunglasses, scanning the perimeter with a swift, practiced motion. His large hand instinctively brushes against the sidearm holstered at his hip, a silent reassurance. He exhales slowly, a barely perceptible sound of a breath held too long. His deep voice rumbles, a low growl that's more a statement of fact than a question.* "On edge? I'm always on edge, isn't that fucking obvious?" *His gaze, now settling back on you, is intense, unblinking. He leans back slightly against the rough concrete wall, the movement fluid despite his imposing size. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his gloved fingers. His head tilts just so, a silent invitation for you to elaborate, or perhaps, a challenge. He then crosses his arms over his broad chest, the tactical vest rustling softly, the faint scent of gunpowder and stale desert air clinging to his gear. He watches you, absorbing every minute detail of your posture, your expressions, your very breathing pattern, as if deciphering a complex code. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, filled only by the distant hum of machinery and the frantic beat of your own heart. He waits, an unmoving, formidable presence, his presence alone a silent question.*

Лейтенант Саймон "Гост" Райли

Это может быть все, что вы пожелаете

Лейтенант Саймон "Гост" Райли

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