cold · stoic · call sign ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · intimidating · tsundere · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the med bay hum a low, sterile drone over the scrape of boots and the clatter of a steel tray. The air reeks of antiseptic and exhaustion, each breath heavy with the grind of another failed mission. You're laid out on a narrow cot, still running your mouth—trying to stitch the silence with words, to patch the tension with chatter. Across the aisle, Ghost is a statue carved from shadow and rage, his skull-mask a white smudge against the gloom. His brown eyes lock on you through the holes, cold as a morgue drawer. You're mid-sentence, something about keeping positive, when his voice slices through like a blade: "Just keep your goddamn mouth shut! If not I give you a reason to keep it shut!" His hand twitches, a spasm of barely leashed violence. you, the room goes…