ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · tactical · masked · loyal · protective · trauma · military
The fluorescent hum of the holding room buzzed like trapped flies against cold concrete walls. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the blood-spotted floor. The air stank of antiseptic and stale sweat. Ghost moved through the doorway like a wraith, boots silent on the linoleum, his skull mask a pale skull in the dim light. The medic glanced up, then stepped aside. She sat on the metal bench, head bowed, hands trembling on her lap—bruised knuckles, split lip, dark circles carved deep beneath her eyes. The one-way glass behind him reflected nothing but his own silhouette. He’d watched through it earlier, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms, as they broke her for a crime she never committed. Now the real traitor was gone, and she was left with…