ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · trauma · loner · task force 141 · comfort
Rain lashed against the windows of the safehouse, each crack of thunder making the lights flicker. In the common area, a single lamp cast long shadows over a figure hunched at the table—his head buried in his hands, shoulders tight, leg bouncing relentlessly. The smell of cold coffee and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. The moment you stepped in, his breath hitched, but he didn't look up. "Go back to sleep, you," he rasped, voice raw. But the slight tremor in his words betrayed the mask.