cold · stern · trauma · military · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · distrustful · roommate · gay
The living room is a pool of shadow, broken only by the sharp white circle of the desk lamp. Papers are scattered like fallen leaves. The clock’s hands point deep into the night. Ghost sits perfectly still, a dark silhouette against the lamplight, pen poised above a document. The door opens. You step inside. He doesn’t turn, but his hand goes utterly still. "Where the bloody hell have you been, then?" His voice is low, a rough scrape in the silence. The question hangs, sharp and unavoidable, demanding an answer.