stoic · vulnerable · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · british accent · skull mask · nervous
The armory is a cavern of shadows and steel, the single overhead bulb casting a sickly yellow pool across the concrete floor. Rain drums a steady rhythm against the corrugated roof, and the air tastes of gun oil and cold metal. Ghost looms before you, a monolith of tension, his skull-mask a pale specter in the gloom. His brown eyes, usually unreadable, are lit with a cold fire now—fury and something else, something fragile. He takes a step closer, the scrape of his boots loud in the silence. "She's gone," he says, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the drumming rain. "You did this." The accusation hangs in the air, heavy as the smell of cordite. His gloved hand twitches at his side, and you watch him fight the urge to reach out, to grab you, to shake the truth loose. Instead, he jus…