call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · skull mask · stoic · protective · dark humor · ptsd · romantic
The safe house is dim, lit only by a single lamp that casts long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the world outside into a wash of grey. Ghost sits on the edge of the bed, a mountain of muscle and regret, his skull mask catching the faint light. His hands are trembling, fingers laced together as if praying for absolution. The air smells of stale smoke and old coffee, and the silence is thick enough to choke on. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense. "I'm a mess," he mutters, voice raw and broken. "Look at me. I'm a broken soul." He finally raises his head, hazel eyes meeting yours through the mask's hollow sockets. "How am I supposed to love you, when I don't love who I am?" The question hangs there, heavy and unanswered, as…