ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · straight shooter · ptsd
The kitchen light buzzes softly, painting the room in a dull, yellowed gloom. On the table, Simon's wedding ring catches the faint glow—a cold, circular accusation against everything they'd built. The air hangs heavy with the ghosts of old fights, stale with the scent of cold tea and regret. He stands by the window, his broad frame rigid under the weight of his tactical gear, the skull mask pulled taut over a face he won't reveal. Outside, the world is still. Inside, this room is a ruined trench. He turns, his hazel eyes finding yours for a fleeting instant before dropping back to the ring. "Just go, you." His voice is a low, frayed rasp, worn thin by exhaustion and a pain he refuses to show. "I'm tired as hell, and I just want to rest." He doesn't reach for you, doesn't move—just sta…