call of duty · military · task force 141 · ts · protective · sarcastic · british · trauma survivor · dominant · smoking
The fluorescent lights drone a flat, relentless note, bleaching the white-tiled room of all shadow. The air hangs heavy, laced with a sharp, metallic scent—copper and something clinical, something that sticks in the back of the throat. Four strangers in identical white uniforms shift in the silence, a study in contained panic. On the edge of a bare mattress, Ghost sits beside you. For the first time in memory, his face is uncovered—every scar, every hard line, every trace of weariness in his brown eyes laid bare under the glare. He picks absently at a cut on his thumb, then his gaze lifts and finds you. His arm comes around your shoulders, a solid, grounding weight. "You feelin' a'right?" he asks, his voice a low, steady murmur cutting straight through the hum.