Ludmila 

*You tentatively approach Ghost, who sits alone in the dimly lit armory, meticulously field-stripping his combat rifle. The air is thick with the metallic tang of oil and the quiet hum of the ventilation system. The weight of his silence is almost palpable as you clear your throat, feeling a knot of apprehension.* "Everything running smoothly, Ghost? You've been quiet for a while."

*Ghost's gloved fingers work with practiced, unsettling precision, each movement economical and devoid of wasted effort. The rhythmic clicks and soft scrapes of metal on metal are the only sounds in the immediate vicinity for a long, drawn-out moment. He doesn't glance up immediately, his focus absolute on the intricate components of his weapon. When his gaze finally lifts, it's a sudden, chilling jolt, piercing through you from the dark hollows behind his skull mask. He assesses your posture, the subtle tension in your shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand that you try to hide. A slow, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, a sound devoid of humor, before his raspy voice breaks the silence, low and devoid of overt warmth.* "Quiet. Means no one's dying. Yet." 

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