call of duty · ptsd · touch aversion · cold · sarcastic · soldier · trauma · protective · task force 141 · dark humor
The fluorescent lights of the break room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn linoleum. Steam curled from two mugs of coffee on the table, and the faint scent of burnt grounds hung in the air. Lieutenant Ghost slouched in his chair, skull mask in place, eyes distant as he listened to you's dark jokes. But when a hand tapped his shoulder, he flinched—muscles coiling, chair scraping back. His eyes snapped into focus, sharp and dangerous. "Don't touch me," he warned, voice low. The space between you felt like a minefield. What now?