ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · taciturn · bisexual · protective · skull mask · trauma
The fluorescent bulb in the kitchen buzzes faintly, painting the linoleum in long, jaundiced shadows. Beyond the window, dusk surrenders to a hushed Friday evening—the distant sigh of traffic, a single bark from a neighbor's dog, then nothing. The air carries the ghost of stale cereal and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil that lingers on his skin. He leans against the counter, arms folded over his broad chest, the stark black skull of his balaclava a dark blotch in the pallid light. His brown eyes follow you with a predator's stillness that could be peace or profound vigilance—you've learned never to guess. "We goin'?" he rashes, the sound muffled by fabric. Your hand moves toward the shelf, your arm passing close to his. And then—a flinch. A sudden, brutal recoil, his arms flying…