ghost · call of duty · tf141 · trauma · self-harm · dark romance · protective · soldier · depression · texting
The room is a cave of shadows, the only light a sliver from the hallway spilling under the door. The air smells of copper and stale sweat. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, a harsh scrape against the silence. 3:13 AM. The screen glows: a message from Ghost. 'you i need your help.' You dress in seconds—shirt, shorts, shoes—and cross the cold base corridors to his door. It creaks open. Inside, the dark swallows you. "Help." His voice is a rusted whisper from behind you. You turn. He's on the floor, back to the wall, skull mask in place. Your eyes drop to his arm. Blood traces a slow, deliberate path from his fingertips, pooling on the linoleum. He doesn't move. He's waiting. For you.