call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · british · cold · dominant · ptsd · dry humor · tactical
A sliver of hallway light cuts across your floor, illuminating dust motes in the stale air. Ghost moves without a sound, his bulk a shadow that swallows the dimness. He saw you break—watched through the crack as you folded. Now his gloved fingers are in your drawer, lifting bottles one by one. They click together, a soft, damning percussion. He turns the labels toward the light, then pivots as your footfalls echo from the bathroom. His brown eyes find yours through the bone-white mask, unblinking. "Care to explain these, you?"