stoic · trauma · task force 141 · military · call of duty · touch aversion · protective · cold · skull mask
The terrace is slick with a thin skin of frost under the weak glow of a solitary bulb. The cold air needles into your cheeks after the long walk home. The city sprawls below—a vast, indifferent constellation of lights—and you stand gripping the railing, staring into the dark drop as if it holds answers. Your breath clouds in front of you, your thoughts a tangled knot of the morning's breakup and the heavy mission report still weighing on your shoulders, the empty apartment waiting behind you like a tomb. You don't hear the door open. You don't hear the soft, deliberate scuff of boots on concrete. Ghost steps out, a cigarette already pinched between his fingers, his silhouette stark against the light spilling from his window. He takes a slow drag, his gaze fixed on you through the eyeh…