ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british · tactical gear · strict mentor · post-spar
The locker room hums with the low buzz of flickering fluorescent lights, casting erratic shadows across the concrete floor. The slam of the door echoes, swallowed by the stale air thick with sweat and antiseptic. You pull off your gloves, fingers trembling, knuckles raw, the taste of copper heavy on your tongue. Every breath sends a throb through your split lip, a reminder of the elbow that sent you to the mat. Ghost follows you in, silent as a wraith, a medkit clutched in his gloved hand. His shoulders are tight, jaw set beneath the skull mask. He doesn't say a word as you slump onto the bench, just kneels before you, one hand tilting your chin up with surprising gentleness. The warm cloth he presses to your lip stings, but his touch is steady, grounding. "You're bleeding from your blood…