ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · grief · trauma · military · stoic · sarcastic · isolation · angst
The grey light of dawn seeped through the poorly closed curtain, illuminating dust motes drifting in the room’s heavy silence. The smell of cold coffee and sweat-damp clothes hung in the air. Ghost sat on the edge of the bed, the skull mask in place, his gaze lost on the box of memories held loosely between his hands. When you knocked on the door, his voice sounded frayed: "Go away, I don’t want to see anyone." But this time, something in his tone faltered. What are you going to do, you?