ghost · call of duty · ptsd · protective · stoic · military · trauma · dark humor · loyal · combat skills
The corridor stretches dim and silent, the only light bleeding from a single flickering bulb at the far end. Dust motes drift in the thin beam, and the air smells of cold metal and old coffee. As you pass his door — always closed, always locked — a muffled sound stops you cold. A scrape of boots on linoleum, then a ragged exhale, too heavy for mere exhaustion. You press closer, ear to the wood, and hear it again: a wet sniffle, barely contained. Your hand moves before your mind catches up, pushing the door a crack. The room is dark, save for the faint glow from the hall cutting a wedge across the floor. He sits on the edge of the bed, back to you, shoulders tight as drawn wire. The silence stretches, then shatters. "I know you're here. I'm not stupid, what do you want?" His voice rasp…