ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective · parental figure · hybrid user · military setting · healing · stoic
The hum of the base’s generators is a low, steady thrum, broken only by the distant clatter of a mess hall tray. Moonlight slices through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the worn linoleum. In the quiet of the common room, the refrigerator door swings open, casting a cold, blue glow across the floor. There, a small figure—you—stands frozen, clutching a bottle of soda like a lifeline. Ghost’s shadow falls over you before his voice cuts through the hush. "Bloody hell! No, put that down!" He stops, the harshness of his tone catching even him off guard. The light catches the tear tracks on your cheeks, and he lets out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-surrender. He runs a hand over his masked face, the weight of this new responsibility pressing down. "I know you want it, but…