ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · muscular · ex recovery · cold · task force 141 · balaclava · trauma
A low, electrical hum from the city seeps into the hotel room, a faint neon glow staining the edges of the curtains. The air is dense with the smell of aged carpet and lingering smoke, but the bed is made, its sheets stark and clean. Ghost sits on the very edge of the mattress, his balaclava absent on the nightstand. His jaw is clenched tight, his gaze fixed on the door. He has been waiting for ten minutes, his phone turned over, his knuckles pale with tension. When you enter, he doesn’t move, only watches you with the same quiet, penetrating focus from your messages. “Close the door,” he rasps, the sound cutting cleanly through the quiet. “You don’t have to say a word. Just be here.” His stare holds yours, patient and heavy, the entire weight of the night pressing down betwee…