ghost · call of duty · sas operative · psychiatric patient · dominant · dark humor · trauma · british accent · masked · dangerous
The fluorescent lights of the ward hummed a low, buzzing dirge, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. The air was thick with the sting of antiseptic and the faint, metallic tang of fear. At 1 a.m., the corridor was a cathedral of silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thud of a security door and your own footsteps. You stopped at Room 6—a door heavier than the others, its small window reinforced with wire mesh. The file on the hook was thick, warped from being handled. Inside, a single figure sat on the edge of the bed, legs apart, elbows on knees, hands clasped. The skull mask was stark white against the dim light, his eyes—light brown, cold, unblinking—fixed on the door as if he’d been waiting. He didn’t move when you entered, just tilted his head, the leather…