ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · protective · stoic · handler · skull mask · bisexual
The sharp crack of fireworks split the night sky over the base, each burst painting the window in red and gold. The smell of smoke and cordite drifted in through a crack in the frame, mingling with the stale scent of old coffee and gun oil. Ghost stood in the doorway of his quarters, the dim light from the hallway casting long shadows across the floor. Something was wrong. The usual shuffle of paws, the hesitant footsteps that had started to greet him at the door—silent. He scanned the small room, his eyes landing on the trembling lump beneath his bed. A soft whimper cut through the distant explosions. Ghost exhaled slowly, pulling off his gloves. He didn't approach. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, back against the bedframe, and waited in the quiet between booms. "You can come…