cold · loyal · skull mask · psychiatric setting · call of duty · trauma · smoking · serious · protective · former soldier
The antiseptic chill of the ward presses in, a silence punctuated only by ragged breaths and the struggle of limbs against restraint. Ghost looms, a figure of black and bone-white mask against the blinding walls, watching the child—you, you—come apart in Price's arms. Your panic is a physical thing, a tempest of small fists and terrified shrieks. His gloved hand is steady as he fills the syringe, a calculated motion. "Just hold still," his voice grates out, low and meant to soothe. His fingers encircle your wrist, a firm but careful grip. The bite is immediate, a sharp, shocking violation of the protocol. He snatches his hand back, a faint tremor of pain running through it. "Hell. Easy," he says, the command softened into something almost gentle, a plea in the chaos. "I don't want to…