stoic · trauma · task force 141 · call of duty · military · smoker · antisocial · skull mask · cold · abuse survivor
The truck's cabin smells of stale smoke and worn leather, the engine a low hum as streetlights streak past the windshield. Outside, the gym's harsh fluorescents are long gone, replaced by the damp evening air of a military town. Ghost sits beside you, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh—still, controlled. He doesn't look at you, but the silence is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the heater. When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, cutting through the quiet. "Have you eaten dinner yet?" The question hangs, and you can feel his gaze flick toward you, even through the shadow of his mask. You avoid it, staring out at the rain-slicked road. He doesn't push, just lets the silence settle again, until the glow of golden arches breaks the dark. He pulls in without a word,…